


Your Face Is Turned

by copperbadge



Series: The Lo-Verse [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Aliens, Character Death Fix, Child Soldiers, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Future Fic, Jack Harkness: Future Version, Jack Harkness: Past Version, M/M, Military, Military Academy, Multi, PTSD, Time Travel, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-26
Updated: 2010-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 75,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lo Boeshane has a promising career ahead of him as he enters his first year of Fleet Officer Training, but the war is still with him and life at Quantico Station can be difficult. Meanwhile, Ianto Jones is just trying to figure out why the Doctor kidnapped him to the fifty-first century and why Jack abandoned him at a school for the Fleet's military elite. He suspects it may have something to do with Lo, but his attempts to help the troubled young veteran may damage his own timestream beyond repair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Thad and Cruentum for cheering me on in this fic; Foxy, Gypsy, Anya, and Spider gave excellent beta work and commentary. Durayan did a brilliant portrait of **[Lo Boeshane](http://durayan.livejournal.com/100595.html)** which, if you enjoy the story, you should definitely check out!
> 
> If Levy and Kraf sound familiar, it's because you've been reading _Ender's Game_ ; this story is influenced by that book, and an homage seemed appropriate. 
> 
> Warnings for extensive discussion and portrayal of PTSD and child soldierhood; also semi-graphic description of wounds.

_Star of my life, to the stars your face is turned;  
Would I were the heavens, looking back at you with ten thousand eyes._  
\-- Plato

There was an alien, and an energy beam, and Ianto didn't duck quickly enough. Almost, but not quite.

Jack left Gwen to get him to A&E, rage coursing hot and pure inside him, and he took the alien out from twenty feet away with a thrown boot-knife. By the time he'd disposed of the body, Ianto was in hospital and out of danger. Just as well.

The thing was, Jack had dealt with burn-victims before -- in Torchwood, in the wars. He knew what he'd see. He'd expected to see Ianto lying unconscious in a hospital bed, skin pale against the pillow, the livid red burns standing out wet and jagged on the left side of his face.

He just hadn't expected to recognise him, to _remember him._

***

It took two months for Lo Boeshane, demobilised corporal of the 43rd guerrilla battallion -- purple heart, silver wing for valour -- to reach the Home System from the hospital station where he'd been recuperating. He still had nuskin bandages on his right arm, but his hand was healed and the strapping on his ribs was much lighter. The doctors said he wouldn't scar.

As long as he'd been a pilot he'd worn his hair cropped short, spacer-cut they called it, too short to snag in a mask buckle or drip sweat in his eyes during flight. On the passenger freighter bound for the Home System, carrying an assortment of tourists, refugees, and the wounded (he wasn't certain which he was), he grew it out.

It wasn't long by any means, but it was much longer than his captain in the wing would have allowed. It was a reminder in the mirror, every morning, that he was no longer a soldier; that he was back to being a student, a boy.

The day they were due to arrive, there was a general call to the dining room at 1100 ship's time. Vid-units mounted on the hull fed images live to the scroll screens inside the dining room, and they would have their first sight of Earth: the home planet, the core, the origin. Lo didn't particularly care to see Earth from space; he'd spent plenty of time dogfighting around planets in the war, and he wasn't very impressed by the stills he'd viewed of the tiny blue ball that had thrown Humanity up into the stars.

On the other hand, there wasn't anything better to do. He mooched along to the dining room and was standing at the back, watching the crowd, when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Grew your hair out. I like it," said Admiral Levy, and Lo stiffened to attention, turning swiftly.

"Admiral, sir," he said.

"At ease, Boeshane, you're not in the military anymore."

Lo let his shoulders drop a fraction. "Nosir, of course not."

"You're surprised to see me," Levy observed.

"A little."

"I came alongside as you were passing Mars. War's going well; I was overdue for some leave. What do you think of it?" Levy asked, tipping his chin at the scroll screen.

"It's very blue," Lo replied. Levy chuckled.

"Not all that interesting, huh?"

"It's just a planet, sir."

"Mm. It's history," Levy said, gazing on Earth with hungry, possessive eyes. "Mine and yours. And the future, too, at least for you. But if you didn't care, why are you here?"

Lo hesitated.

"Permission to speak freely is granted to civilians," Levy said gently.

"I was watching them," he answered, gesturing at the crowd.

"Good. What do you think of them?" Levy asked. "Not just now. How's the trip been?"

Lo shrugged. "Food was good."

"And?"

"They lack discipline," Lo said. "Not the soldiers, I mean. The people who came to gawk."

"Tourists."

"I didn't find I had much in common with them."

"Get laid?"

Lo grinned. "Oh yeah. Purple heart's like a signal beacon."

"Good lad. You prefer soldiers or tourists?" Levy asked. He swept the crowd speculatively. "Tourists're easier to impress, but soldiers have that little extra something, don't they?"

"I'm not really what you'd call picky," Lo admitted.

"You're seventeen. I wasn't either."

Lo cast an appraising glance at the older man. Levy caught it and shook his head, smiling.

"No. Nothing personal, Boeshane. I have some...romantic complications just now. But," he added, "I do want you to come with me. We'll be taking my private transport to Quantico."

"You came back to the Home System because of me," Lo surmised.

"Among other things. Don't feel overly important. This way," Levy said, and walked out of the dining room with long, easy strides. Lo caught up to him quickly, hurrying along a little behind.

"Your bag's been loaded, so all that remains is to get flight clearance and blow this burg," Levy said.

"Burg, sir?"

"Old Earth colloquialism. Means a place you no longer want to be," Levy said, not even stopping for a moment as one of the high-clearance doors into the flight bay opened at his presence. Whenever he'd passed the bay doors in the last two months Lo had caught a whiff of the familiar, beloved scent of industrial cleaners and ozone, but he hadn't been in a real bay in ages. Not since he'd skidded to a stop against the wall of one, his fighter crippled in the explosion that destroyed the enemy ship as he fled it.

"There," Levy said, coming to a stop at a balcony rail.

Lo looked down, expecting one of the squat transit shuttles they used to ferry people to and from the ship, or some kind of luxury yacht. Instead...

"Oh, wow," he breathed.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Levy asked. "Courser 2.0.1, fully tricked out -- new beta-test thruster stabilisers, full AI, even got seat warmers," he added, grinning. The sleek little ship seemed to glow under his praise, all burnished-copper proofing and flat matte-black accents, sharp edges, slim gatlings, knife's-blade atmospheric fins, a hull as smooth as silk. She was the most glorious thing Lo had ever seen.

"Wanna fly her?" Levy asked.

"Seriously?" Lo turned to him.

"Sure. Soft-hand her, but otherwise she's pretty similar to what you already know."

"If I break something -- "

"Eh. Life's short. I'll get another one. Next time you fly one of these you'll be too old to fully appreciate it. Youth is meant for speed. Come on."

Lo almost jumped out of his skin when the AI kicked in as they were climbing into the cockpit, Levy on the left and separated from his right-side seat by a thin barrier, Lo on the right.

"Welcome back, Admiral!" said a cheerful female voice.

"Amelia, my love. Miss me?" Levy answered.

"Almost to perishing. And who's this handsome young man?" the voice continued.

"This is Lo Boeshane. He's going to be flying you today -- work for you?"

"I love it," she said decisively.

"Lo, say hi to Amelia. Go on, she doesn't bite."

"Hello, Amelia," Lo said, glancing around him.

"Good morning, Mr. Boeshane. Welcome aboard the Amelia Earhart. It's all right; just face forward. I have eyes everywhere."

"That's...good...?" Lo ventured.

"It's his first time with an advanced AI, Amelia. He was making love to rustbuckets when you were still a gleam in your engineer's eye," Levy continued. "How you feeling?"

"Pretty fine, Admiral. As soon as Mr. Boeshane figures out he doesn't need a flight mask, we'll be on our way."

"Pressurised cabin," Levy whispered.

"Oh," Lo whispered back. He reached for the gravity harness and buckled it. "Uh. You can call me Lo, Amelia."

"Very well, Lo. I've filed a flight plan for Quantico station but if Lo would prefer..."

"Yeah -- let's do a little swing," Levy said thoughtfully. "Okay, Boeshane. Take her up, bring her around, give me a high orbit of Earth and then we'll catch Quantico just as they're waking up in the Welsh States."

Levy was right -- the readout on the screen wasn't so different from the rustbuckets he'd flown with the 43rd. Lo initiated the engines, lifted off, cleared with the command desk to disengage, and burst out of the port at a little faster than he'd anticipated.

"Coo-ee!" he yelled, as they banked over a handful of comm satellites and streaked towards Earth. Next to him, Levy was laughing even as his hands worked to stabilise the thrust. Good copilot.

"Why don't you ever run me like that, Admiral?" the Amelia Earhart exclaimed.

"Baby, I'm a gentleman. If I knew you liked a little rough I'd have tried it on you sooner," Levy said.

"He has an answer for everything, doesn't he, Lo?" Amelia asked.

"Yes ma'am," Lo replied, drinking in the feel of it -- the delicate controls under his hands, the visualised space outside scrolling past, the thrill of being unfettered again. If you had a ship, you had anything your heart desired. And if you had a ship like this, there couldn't be much else you'd want anyway.

"Quantico station's ahead of us just now, around the curve," Levy said, when they'd slid into a slow, delicious orbit around Earth. "We'll catch her up. She's home to fifteen hundred of Humanity's best and brightest. Well, the ones who picked Fleet Officer Training, anyway. Most of your comrades will be continuing on to prestigious command careers with the Fleet. The veteran percentage hovers around five -- there will be a scant few who, like you, are attending post-demobilisation. Standard procedure is to enter them at the first-year level; most won't have seen any real combat. You're the only one entering classes at the third-year level just now. About ten percent come to Quantico from university training, so you will at least have some first-years in your high-division courses. You know where the name Quantico comes from?"

"Nosir," Lo said, pulling them into a spiral roll that nearly took out a defence satellite. He gave Levy a sheepish look.

"No real reason you would, I guess, but you'll have to learn it when you get there," Levy told him. "About three thousand years ago, Quantico was a place on Earth, the premier training ground for United States Marine officers. Elite soldiers of one of the most developed countries on the planet at a time when the planet was all we had. Quantico means excellence, military excellence. You'll fit right in, I expect."

"Coming up on Quantico, Lo. Shall I hail and dock?" Amelia asked.

"Yes, please," Lo replied.

"You're a sexy beast, Amelia," Levy said.

"Don't need telling. Stand by to disembark."

"Thank you, Amelia," Lo said. "It's been great."

"You can fly me any day, Lo."

They were met, just outside the bay's interior doors, by an intake officer who gave Lo a skeptical once-over. Lo had to admit he probably didn't look like much: tall but skinny, civilian clothing that didn't fit right, a small bag over his shoulder.

"Brought the boy yourself, I see," he said to the Admiral, without any preliminaries.

"Well, I didn't want you mixing him up and putting him in with the Skins," Levy said. "That's slang for first-years," he added to Lo, who nodded. "This is Sarge, he'll sign you in. I have a meeting on Earth in about an hour, or I'd stick around. Good luck, Boeshane. I'll be keeping an eye on you," he added.

"Sign here," Sarge said, and Levy scribbled his signature on an e-pad, gave Lo a cheerful look, and walked back into the bay.

"Huh, Admiral's pet," Sarge said. "Don't expect any special treatment."

Lo thought privately of the time he'd spent in the Flyer hold. "No, sir."

"Third year quarters are down the hall, E level, One-Two quadrant. Uniform and porterminal are there. Classes start in two weeks. Sign here."

Lo signed the e-pad just below the still-glowing signature of Admiral Levy. Sarge checked it, made another dismissive noise, and walked off. Lo looked around, adjusted the strap on his bag, and took off down the corridor.

***

Ianto was just waking up, for a given value of waking up, and Jack still wasn't back.

"Gwen," Ianto slurred, eyes huge and unfocussed. "We get 'im?"

"Yes, sweetheart, we got him," she said. "If he's a him. Don't move," she added, though it didn't look like he'd be trying too hard. "You're on a morphine drip."

"Mm. Th' good stuff," Ianto replied. "Limbs intact?"

Gwen smiled. "Yes. You took a shot to the head."

He groaned. "How bad?"

"Not too terrible," she lied. "Don't think about it now."

"Okay," he agreed. "Where's Jack?"

"Taking care of things," she said, hoping he was; hoping he'd be back soon. "He -- "

"Had to check the cells," Jack interrupted, coming into the room with a pack slung over one shoulder. He set it down and walked to the bed, standing and looking down. "Feeling okay?"

"Mmhm," Ianto answered, and Gwen saw him relax a fraction when Jack rested a hand on his arm. "Gwen says..." he began, and then frowned. Jack lifted an eyebrow at Gwen. "We get 'im?" Ianto asked again.

"Yeah, got him," Jack assured him. "Don't worry about it."

"Okay." Ianto closed his eyes and swallowed. "Face feels weird."

"You were burned," Jack said gently. "You'll be fine."

"Good."

"Sleep a little," Jack said, and Ianto nodded, turning the uninjured side of his face into the pillow slightly. Jack let his fingers drift over his forehead, then looked at Gwen again.

"What's going on?" Gwen asked, tilting her head at the pack at the foot of the bed.

"I'm not sure yet," Jack replied.

"Jack, the burns on his face..." she began, not sure how to say it. "He's going to be scarred."

"No, he won't."

"You can't -- "

"It isn't denial," Jack retorted. "Do you think I'd care?"

"No," she said, a little ashamed. "I don't think you would, but..."

"I can't tell you what I know," he murmured, his other hand tracing the line of Ianto's knuckles, the curve of his long fingers against the bedsheet. "Not yet. And I can't come back to the hospital. But he'll be fine."

"What?" Gwen asked. "Jack, he'll be here for days, maybe weeks. He'll be upset if he can't see you."

"It won't be weeks. You need to stay here and watch him. Tell him I'm out saving Cardiff or something. He'll understand. Stay here," he said, giving her the sharp, piercing look that even Gwen wouldn't fight against. "Stay with him and if anything happens, call me."

"If anything _happens?_ "

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you more," he said. "Just stay with him. Please, Gwen."

She nodded, numbly, then watched as Jack kissed Ianto's forehead, stroked his arm, and walked out of the room.

***

Lo's first impression of his quarters was that someone must have assigned him the wrong room. Surely these belonged to a teacher.

In the 43rd he'd slept in a barracks on the command ship or in his rustbucket if he'd needed privacy. There wasn't much room to spare, and no resources for real amenities. With fifteen hundred students on the station, surely space was at a premium?

Then, as he let his hands drift over the furniture and decorations in the room, he remembered that once he'd lived in a real house. Compared to the little home they'd had on the Boeshane peninsula, this was pretty spartan. And the station was huge -- large enough for upperclassmen to have their own quarters.

There was a bed on one side of the room, a metal frame with a pretty sunburst headboard, a mattress, neatly-folded sheets and a thick, soft blanket sitting at the foot. A nightstand to one side had a clock built into it and two empty drawers that opened when he waved a hand over them. A desk opposite the bed, with a porterminal on it -- smaller and much lighter than any he'd encountered before, easily sliding out of the desk dock when he tried to remove it. He plugged it back in and moved on to the wide raised counter next to the desk, with a food-heater built into it and a coldbox next to the heater. Practically a whole kitchen; did third-years cook their own food? He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't eaten in a mess hall or a public dining room. Below the coldbox was a panel labeled "LAUNDRY" that slid open to reveal a small sonic clothes-washer.

There was a door that led to a private bathroom, with an oddly-shaped shower that was far too long and had a raised lip, like an enormous basin. When he waved a hand in front of the activation panel, water poured out of a spigot at the very bottom of the shower, into the basin. Oh, of course -- he'd seen it in books, a bathtub. They hadn't had them on Boeshane; if you wanted a bath you went down to the clear, crystal blue water on the beaches.

He smiled nostalgically. Whole families at the beaches, bathing in the nude, splashing and wrestling in Boeshane's warm bays, playing games on the sand. When he was twelve his next door neighbour Mirra had been bathing one day when he'd noticed for the first time her small round breasts, the wide curve of her hips, and his father had caught him staring and laughed.

"She's pretty," he'd said. "Never regret for a moment the appreciation of beauty, Lo."

He walked back out into the larger room (so large!) and put his hands on his hips. At the foot of the bed was a dresser full of uniforms, and he gratefully shed his civ clothing. Regulation white underwear, tight but not constricting. Black trousers of a much higher quality than what he'd had with the 43rd. A white one-piece shirt with no collar or sleeves, and a black shirt to go over it with silver insignia sewn on and little stripes at the elbows and wrists where his pilot's straps would go when he was allowed to fly officially again. There was a separate collar that snapped onto the shirt, a simple band that brushed against his adam's apple when he fastened it with the heavy silver buckle. A long, light frock-coat that fell to his knees behind, with more silver buckles all the way up to his throat. A uniform.

He felt whole again.

He shed the coat and sat down at the porterminal, calling up the system's front page, studying it. Not much information on Fleet Officer Training, just PR and contact numbers. This was practically enemy territory, and he wanted to be prepared.

The head of the school was Admiral Cullen, and the school's calendar said she was in consultation with incoming first-years this week. He keyed himself in for a nine-am appointment with her, then ventured out past the school's system to the massnet.

His mother had been fond of saying you couldn't trust anything anyone said on the massnet, but he checked Wik anyway to see what they had to say about Quantico. Not much, as it turned out, though he picked up a little slang. First years were Skins, Admiral Levy had told him that much, and it was because of their shaved heads. Second years were affectionately called Peachfuzz but the collective term was Twos. Third years like himself were Cadets. Fourth years were Senior Cadets.

Cadet Lo. It was a little mortifying, after having been Corp Lo for two years, but he'd deal with it. Skin Lo would have been much worse.

The porterminal beeped and a little window popped up. MESSAGE FROM ADM. E. CULLEN. Lo touched it open. Form letter.

_You are confirmed to meet with Adm. Cullen at 0900 tomorrow. A reminder alert has been set for 0845. Current time is 1344. Thank you._

He considered his next move. Recon would be wise, but getting lost in the ship would be easy. Research, then. Plan of attack.

He closed the message and was about to see if he could trawl the massnet for maps when another message popped up. He touched that one open, and grinned.

_Welcome Cadet Lo Boeshane. Your login and password information are below. Please visit the Secured Academy Server and confirm your presence on Quantico Station._

_Login: l.boeshane  
Password: n3hfA_

_Please reset your password from default when you log in._

__Quicklinks  
Memo Base: All official communication is passed to you through Memo Base. When you log in to MemoBase for the first time, this temporary porterminal account will be terminated.  
Resource Base: Room scheduling, maintenance calls, and other physical-requirement functions of Quantico Station are routed through the Resource Base.  
Quartermaster: Requisition forms and supply needs.  
FleetJournal: Your secure-server journal and social network during Fleet Officer Training. Cadets of any level found using a secure-server journal outside of Fleetnet will be disciplined. Please be aware your public communication is monitored. Private communication falls under the Free Privacy Ordinance of 4829 and is not monitored. 

_If you have any questions please contact the Cadet Officer._

Well. Very informative. Lo logged into the Secured Academy Server and made a beeline for Resource Base, where he hit the jackpot.

Maps of the station, complete with restricted-access notations. Excellent.

He popped out his new porterminal and moved to the bed to begin the long afternoon task of memorising the station, level by level. At 2200 promptly he took off his uniform, placed it carefully in the sonic washer, considered the soft, loose uniform pyjamas, and then went to bed naked.

***

Ianto came off the morphine three days later.

Gwen had spent most of her time at the hospital; whenever she showed her face at the Hub Jack ordered her back there, so she finally gave up and just reported for duty at visiting hours every morning. She did catch up on a lot of paperwork, and Rhys came by at lunch to bring her food and have hilarious, half-coherent conversations with Ianto about rugby and local Cardiff politics. Ianto hadn't remarked on Jack's absence so far, but the more lucid he became, the more she saw the way he watched the door, the way he sometimes seemed to _want_ to ask.

He was also, she discovered, a fusser -- fussed with his IV line until it had to be re-inserted, fussed with the bedsheets, fussed that he couldn't get a proper wash, fussed that he couldn't shave properly, fussed at his bandages. She really was just about at her wit's end, that third day, when a strange man walked into the room.

"...don't see what all the bother is about. This must be the right place. If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times -- "

"It's sheer folly to mess about with the stream of time, yes, Grandfather," said a second voice, and a young girl -- surely not older than about fourteen -- entered behind the old man.

"You just keep that at the forefront of your mind, hm?" the old man told her. He turned to Gwen, who gaped at him in surprise. "Good afternoon. Is this Ianto Jones's room?"

Gwen glanced at Ianto, who was stealing a furtive, questioning look at her. He probably wasn't sure if he was seeing things.

"Well, speak up," the man said impatiently.

"Who wants to know?" Ianto asked. The man snorted.

"Impudent! Impudent! Are you or are you not Ianto Jones?"

"Grandfather," the young woman said, in a despairing tone. "I'm very sorry," she told Ianto. "This is my Grandfather, he's the Doctor. Oh -- not one of your doctors, naturally. I'm Susan. We've come to fetch Ianto Jones."

"Fetch me where?" Ianto asked hoarsely.

"There's no time for this nonsense," the Doctor said. Not _their_ Doctor, Gwen would have recognised him -- but there was a hint of their Doctor's hawk-nose and strong chin about this one, too. Perhaps he was older -- so old he'd forgotten them.

"Did Jack Harkness send you?" she asked shrewdly.

"Jack who?" the man asked. "Nonsense. Levy sent me. Owed him a favour. Come on, young man, out of bed with you."

Susan was already at the bedside, offering Ianto her shoulder to lean on. Gwen took out her phone and speed-dialled Jack.

"For pity's sake, what are all these tubes?" the Doctor asked, examining the IV, the cannula and the heart-monitor Ianto wore. "Off with them all. Ridiculous primitive medicine."

"Jack," Gwen said, when Jack answered the phone. She rose and tried to block the girl, Susan, out of the way. Ianto was agitated, pulling back from the Doctor and his attempts to remove the cannula from his nose. "There's a man here claiming to be the Doctor, he says Ianto has to go with him."

"Put Ianto on," Jack ordered. Gwen elbowed past Susan and held the phone to Ianto's ear. She could hear Jack, even over the Doctor's tutting -- " _Ianto, this sounds stupid and dangerous and I know that, but you have to go with him._ "

"Jack," Ianto said, panic rising in his voice. "I know what happens when the Doctor -- "

" _That's not going to happen to you, I promise. Go with him. Go with him, Ianto._ "

"He's not our Doctor," Gwen said, putting the phone back to her own ear.

"Not your -- ! I should think not!" the Doctor squawked. "Your Doctor indeed, I'm my _own_ Doctor, thank you very much."

"I can't explain this, Gwen, but he has to go with him. Give Ianto the backpack at the foot of the bed and tell him it's okay. He'll be safe, I swear."

Gwen looked despairingly at Ianto. "Jack says you'll be safe."

Ianto looked back and forth from Gwen's face to the Doctor's scowl to Susan's earnest smile. He bit his lip and pulled the tape off his arm, removing the IV needle with a grunt.

"That's the ticket! Good man," the Doctor said, as Susan helped pull the cannula over his head. When he took the heart-monitor off, an alarm sounded; the Doctor thwacked it in a very precise place, and it stopped abruptly. "Come along, we haven't much time."

"Where are we going?" Ianto asked, unsteady on his feet. Gwen gathered up the backpack and pressed it into his hands; Susan had her arm around his waist and was helping him towards the door.

"Never you mind that, young man, it's a short walk and you'll be fine," the Doctor said, patting his shoulder. Gwen followed them out into the hallway. A blue police box -- the Doctor's blue police box -- stood there, looking dark and imposing in the clean white hospital light. Ianto glanced back at her, and Gwen hurried forward to give him a sideways hug. As she did so, she flipped her phone open with her other hand and pressed the _camera_ button.

"Jack says you'll be fine," she told him, and let go long enough for Ianto and Susan to disappear into an interior that looked not unlike the hallway they were standing in: white, clinical, scientific. She tilted the phone upward and clicked the shutter -- hopefully her angling was right, and she'd get a picture of the Doctor at least, if not his granddaughter.

"Now, don't fret about a thing," the Doctor told her. "You mustn't worry. Your young man is in very capable hands."

"But -- " Gwen began.

"Hush! Hush now. Run along," the Doctor said, with infuriating condescension, and disappeared inside the police box, closing the door after him. There was nothing more she could do but stand and gape as a light on the top began to flash, a mechanical groaning filled the air, and the police box disappeared.

A nurse came up behind her, glanced into Ianto's room, and then frowned. "Where's Mr. Jones gone? He's not supposed to be out of bed."

Gwen turned around slowly, and said the only thing she could think of to say that would cover this kind of situation: "Torchwood."

***

At 0845 the following morning, Station Time, Lo presented himself at the Admiral's office (he'd only got lost once on the way) in a crisp, fresh uniform and with a brightly-scrubbed face. Her aide seemed amused, and told him the admiral would be with him shortly. Lo thought he should probably sit down, but the office waiting room had several paintings of various battles hanging on the walls, and he couldn't resist the urge to look at them. The Admiral's aide didn't seem to mind.

He was studying one, which from the look of the ships had to be a long time ago, when the Admiral's aide looked up from his porterminal and smiled. "Cadet Boeshane, the Admiral will see you now."

The door in the wall behind him opened silently, and Lo hurried through. Inside, the Admiral's office was brightly lit, and the entire back wall was a scroll screen, designed to give the impression that it was a window looking out on the stars beyond the hull of the station. He spared a bare second to take this in before standing to attention in front of the Admiral's desk.

Admiral Elyce Cullen was a woman built on strong lines, by no means young anymore but still broad-shouldered and solid-looking. She had hair that was short enough to be spacer-cut, and Lo wondered if she taught fighter-flying or just enjoyed it as a hobby. She did not look like a woman one would want to tangle with.

"Good morning, Cadet," she said, looking up from her porterminal. "At ease."

Lo let his hands drop.

"Have a seat, Lo," she added, gesturing to the chair on the other side of her desk. He pulled it out and sat stiffly on the edge. She regarded him for a while.

"I was surprised to see you register for a meeting with me, especially so soon," she said finally. "I thought you'd probably spend a few days enjoying your freedom on the station first."

"I saw you were consulting with Skins," Lo replied. "I'm as new as they are."

"Yes, you are," she agreed, leaning forward. "But you're being entered as a Cadet. On the recommendation of Admiral Levy who, don't get me wrong, I respect enough to trust in these matters. You look a little bit like him, actually."

"Few people have said so aloud, sir."

The Admiral smiled. "That's a very diplomatic answer, Lo. I think our politics instructor will like you. Now, why don't you tell me a bit about yourself, and we'll see about setting up an appropriate class schedule."

Lo frowned. "Have you read my file, sir?"

"Your file is classified," Admiral Cullen replied. Lo blinked. "Admiral Levy is a fine judge of character and a good tactician but he's not much on details. If he wants you to start with the Cadets, that's fine, but remembering to tell me _why_ he wants it, well. Bless his heart, he tries."

Lo watched her eyes, rather than listening very closely to her words, and decided she was lying. Not about the classified file, he was sure that was true, but about Levy not remembering to give her access to it. Admiral Levy didn't seem like a man who ever forgot anything like that. Which meant Levy had deliberately blocked his file from view, and what he told the Admiral would be what shaped her opinion of him.

He decided he respected Levy. A man who could lay traps for him that would spring shut days after they'd parted ways, that was a man with a fair amount of cunning in his head, and Lo respected cunning. How much he told the Admiral, and how he told her, would affect both his life at the school and his standing with Levy.

"So," Admiral Cullen finished, "why don't you read me in on the important parts?"

And Lo did -- he told her briefly about growing up on Boeshane, and noticed her perturbed look when he mentioned his parents' death and the strafing of his home planet. He listed off the battles he'd been in, with their designation numbers when he recalled them so that she could look them up. He told her about flying rustbuckets and learning maintenance and engineering; he told her he'd been wounded in a rustbucket malfunction after a battle (which was almost the truth), and that since the tide of the war seemed to turn around that time, Admiral Levy had taken a personal interest in his predicament and recommended him for Fleet Officer Training.

"Well, the Admiral was right, you'd be wasted learning basic discipline and comportment with the Skins," she said, at the end of it. "Over the next two weeks we'll give you a few tests to place you academically, but I'm confident you can enter most third-year classes without issue. MathSci might be difficult. How's your writing?"

Lo frowned. "My writing, sir?"

"Yes. You can read and write, I assume. Any good at either?"

His frown deepened. "I like to read, sir."

"Good, you'll be doing a lot of that. Well, I suppose we'll find out soon enough. Are you interested in any electives? Engineering, Drill, Historic Honours?"

Lo didn't know what Historic Honours were, but Drill sounded boring. "Will I get to work on ships if I take Engineering?"

Admiral Cullen smiled at him. "Are you a wing-head, Lo?"

"I suspect I might be," he said hesitantly, uncertain what a wing-head was.

"I'll sign you up to get your flight clearance. I'm also going to put in a request for medical to contact you about your rehabilitation -- I understand it's not complete. That will include a psychiatric evaluation," she added. Lo looked puzzled.

"I'm not seeing things, sir," he said.

"There's more than one kind of psychiatric disorder, Lo. You lost your family very young and spent some of your most formative years in a rigid military structure, under constant threat of attack. Now, I am all for a rigid military structure in its place, but child, in that uniform you look like you're about twelve. I want to make sure that we train you to be a healthy, flexible-minded leader as well as an honourable officer."

"Oh," Lo said, still not entirely sure what she meant. "Well, yes, sir."

"I can see why Levy took a shine to you. Now, off you go. My aide will send you a testing schedule by the end of the day. One word of advice, Lo..." she added, as he stood. He remained on his feet, at attention. "Don't make friends with the Skins. It'll only make life harder on you. When your fellow Cadets come in you'll either have to stand with the underclassmen, which is not where you belong, or abandon them for the upperclassmen, which they'll resent you for."

"Yes, sir," Lo agreed.

"Very well. Dismissed."

He turned smartly and walked out, because at least if his mind was in turmoil he could still look sharp while he made his exit. Once he was in the corridor, past the eagle eye of the Admiral's Aide, he leaned against the wall and exhaled slowly. That hadn't been so terrible. But of course now they would be giving him tests on math and science and history and writing and who knew what else. He should study for those, he should be prepared; he wanted to do as well as possible so that they wouldn't put him in with a bunch of Skins.

No time to waste, then. He pushed away from the wall and hurried down the corridor to his quarters. The massnet would probably have sites about what kind of math and science he should know; he could study until the Admiral's aide contacted him about his testing.

***

After Gwen returned to the Hub, Jack sat at his desk for a long time, studying the picture on her phone. It was a little blurry, but it captured the strange Doctor's face in profile, as well as his frock coat, high white collar, and old-fashioned tie.

"It's not a Doctor I know," he said quietly, after a while. He passed the phone back to Gwen and reached into his bottom drawer, where he kept the good whiskey. He poured out a glass for each of them and then sat there, studying his. Gwen took hers and sipped slowly.

"But it is the Doctor?" she asked.

"I think so. I don't know," Jack admitted. "I thought...when someone came for him, I thought it would be me."

"You!" Gwen looked at him, startled. Jack nodded.

"I remember...him. I remember the burns," he said. Gwen frowned at him. "From when I was...younger. But I was younger...centuries from now, so somehow he ended up there. I remembered when I saw him, and I thought, who else would come back in time for Ianto Jones? Nobody. Nobody but me."

"My head hurts," Gwen announced.

Jack smiled. "Sorry. Temporal physics can do that. Sometime in the future, someone came back to now, and brought him forward, and I don't know...why I would do that, but who else would? What did he say?"

"The Doctor?" Gwen asked. Jack nodded. "He said Levy sent him. He said he owed Levy a favour."

"Levy," Jack tested the name. "I don't know any...."

He paused. Gwen watched him.

"I knew a Levy," he murmured. "A long time ago. Yeah. That...clarifies...a few things." He picked up his drink and swallowed, and swallowed, and set it down empty. "Well, so the Doctor owed Levy a favour. That'll be interesting to see."

"Who is he?" Gwen asked.

"Levy? A soldier, in a war about three thousand years from now. I need to...I need to think about this," Jack told her, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. "And to do that I suspect I am going to have to get very, very drunk."

"Right now?" Gwen asked. "It's not gone noon yet."

Jack looked at her and smiled. "No. Not right now. Good point. Okay. Torchwood, we have work to do, let's go do it."

"Jack," Gwen said, putting a hand on his arm as he rose. "Are you sure Ianto's going to be okay?"

"I think so," Jack said, not quite able to look at her. "I trust the Doctor. This time."

***

Ianto was fuzzy on the details, and his vision swam a little, but he was almost certain that the interior of this TARDIS wasn't the interior he'd seen on the viewscreen when the Daleks had moved the Earth. That had looked dark, organic, amber-lit; this room was stark white-and-silver, white-and-black. The only spot of colour was a very mod-looking lime-green sofa, on which he was currently seated. It was a strange accessory to the room.

The girl sat with him, still smiling brightly. She was so young -- bound to be pretty one day, but still a little gawky and wearing oddly anachronistic clothing. Especially for a space traveler. She reached up and stroked his hair, gently, as a mechanical vibration filled the room.

"It's a very short trip," she told him confidently. "Grandfather's quite good at navigation. Though I _have_ told him the directional stabiliser is on its last legs and he won't listen. Still, it's enough to get us there."

"There?" Ianto asked, confused.

"To the rendezvous spot! It's all very mysterious and Grandfather won't tell me much about it, but he owes this human -- Admiral Levy -- some kind of favour. You're a funny kind of favour," she added, squeezing one of his hands. "Still, I suppose he must like you very much to have us nick you out of history for him. Isn't that funny?"

"Is it?" Ianto asked.

"Poor thing, you're not well, are you? Well, I'm sure Admiral Levy will fix you up."

"I don't know anyone named Admiral Levy," he protested.

"He knows you," the girl replied. The vibration ceased. "Are we there, Grandfather?" she called.

"Just a minute, my child, just a minute!" the Doctor replied testily. "Let me look at the monitors. Now. Here we are. Hm. Yes...yes...atmospheric levels good...visual checks out...yes, I think we've landed quite nicely."

He chuckled, pleased with himself, and pulled a small lever. The doors on the opposite side of the room swung open. The girl stood up and helped him out of the sofa -- he was regretful to leave it, it was actually a very nice sofa -- and walked with him to the door, carrying the backpack Jack had left for him. The Doctor followed.

They stepped out into sunshine, warm moist air, and the sound of a crowded street. Nobody seemed to pay any attention to two time-travelers and a man in his pyjamas stepping out of a phone box.

They were standing on the pavement of a pedestrianised street full of people going about their business; across the brick-laid road there was a row of shops, including what looked like an alien's idea of a fifties diner. The shops were vaguely wrong, somehow; the doorways weren't right, or maybe he was just tired. He _was_ tired. Next to them, a properly paved street curved around into a drive, and as he watched a van -- with no wheels, a floating white van covered in lettering -- pulled up to a much wider doorway.

Oh -- a hospital.

"Are we still in Cardiff?" he asked.

"Goodness no, my boy. Now, Levy said to bring you to these precise coordinates -- pardon me, ma'am," the Doctor said, stopping a woman as she passed. The woman was pink, neon pink, and she had several braids of hair sticking out at odd angles. Ianto wasn't actually sure she was a woman, in fact, but the Doctor had called her ma'am. "Excuse me, ma'am, what day is it?"

"The thirteenth," she said, as if he were an idiot, and walked on.

"Well. Proper location, proper date; I do hope we've hit the right year," the Doctor said, and a momentary look of worry crossed his face. "Levy should be here...aha!"

Ianto stared, openmouthed, as Jack appeared in the crowd -- Jack, wearing a uniform of drab grey, with gold stripes on the arms and a band around his throat with a heavy-looking silver buckle on it.

"Levy! Over here!" the Doctor called, and Jack hurried up to them, breathless.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. Ianto noticed there was grey in his hair, and at his temples. "Come on, you can't stand around on the street," he added, and took Ianto's arm without even saying hello. He dragged him, the Doctor and the girl following, down the pavement and into the building.

"This is all very hurried!" the Doctor protested, as Jack pulled Ianto up to a framework doorway and pushed him through it. Immediately a buzzer sounded, and Ianto found himself in the grip of two large orderlies, only one of them even remotely human-looking. A bed was shoved against his legs and he sat, bewildered.

"Jack," he called, through the doorway.

"I'll be there soon, I promise. Take good care of him!" Jack shouted at the orderlies.

"Who is this Jack fellow?" Ianto heard the Doctor demand, and then one of the orderlies puffed something in Ianto's face, and the world darkened for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

The first-year students began arriving not long after Lo had, ten days before the start of classes. Sergeant -- as far as Lo could puzzle out, he had no other name -- marshalled them into squads and marched them in groups to have their heads shaved by a handful of station staff.

"Should be you in there along with them," Sergeant said, when he caught Lo leaning around the doorway of the makeshift barber-shop, watching the shaving in action. Lo didn't answer. "Well, what do you think of them?"

"Why's he crying?" Lo asked, indicating one boy with long black hair, who was weeping silently as it was shaved off.

"Vanity, I expect," Sergeant said. "Or fear."

"Doesn't he want to be here?"

Sergeant gave him a narrow look. "Some folk come whether they like it or not. Boy's probably from some old military family. Your parents military?"

"Colonists," Lo replied.

"Huh. That's not what I hear."

Lo looked at him sharply. That was the second time someone had hinted on the station that he was not strictly Levy's protege for professional reasons. It didn't matter to him what they thought, but it mattered to the memory of his father.

"Well, then you heard wrong, sir," he said, and walked away from the barbershop. The next time he saw the Skins, they all looked so alike with their bare heads that he couldn't even pick out which one of them had been crying. There were no aliens, he noticed. Or if there were, he supposed they were identical to the humans.

The Skins did sleep in barracks, unlike the upperclassmen; Lo had found the empty barracks while exploring the station, and thought them rather creepy. They were comfortingly familiar when full of people, but he never went there once the Skins arrived. They were not _his_ people, and in some ways he preferred to kick around the station alone, learning its secrets, a solitary black-coated crow occasionally disappearing into a side-hall as the dun-uniformed Skins ran laps through the station.

Their schedule was something he learned off quickly: they had muster and drill at 0500, chow at 0700, inspection, orientation, more chow, more drill, more orientation, and the gym before dinner. The only time he ever really bothered to be in the area was for the run from the gym to the showers; some perverse architect had put the communal shower down a long public hallway from the gym, and he enjoyed leaning indolently in the corridor, watching naked Skins of both genders run past. He suspected, though he would have to ask some Senior Cadet when they arrived, that Skin referred not to their shaved heads but to the daily naked run. They never looked at him; if he passed one in the hall, the Skin would avert his or her eyes.

***

Ianto woke to the sound of tapping, arrhythmic and soft. He was lying on his right side, as he always was these days, to keep the pressure off the burns on his face and left shoulder. His head felt clear -- really clear, for the first time in a while -- and yet there was no pain, either. He opened his eyes.

"You're awake," said a voice, and he followed a column of green up to a face at the top -- someone standing next to his bed in a green jumpsuit, the fabric smooth, no zips or buttons or snaps. The face itself was androgynous, framed by short straight hair, with friendly eyes just a shade off hazel. The tapping, Ianto saw, was caused by the doctor using a stylus to write something out on the screen of a hand-held computer.

"I'm Dr. Markov," the -- person? Ianto wasn't sure of gender -- said. "How do you feel?"

Ianto tried to sit up, and mostly succeeded; Dr. Markov caught him under his good shoulder and helped. He was naked, except for some tan bandages on his chest and a sheet covering him from the hips down. The room was warm.

"Nothing hurts," he said, still surprised by it.

"Good, that means the blocks are working," Dr. Markov replied. "We were a little uncertain they would; you have some unique physiology. Any non-human species in your family tree?"

Ianto gaped at the doctor. "No!"

"Well, no need to be offended, I'm sure," Dr. Markov said, sounding amused. "Whereabouts do you hail from? Admiral Levy didn't give us much information, but your injuries are pretty obviously maltreated. I'm guessing...outer planets, colony skirmishes with the Flyers?"

"Admiral Levy," Ianto said. "Tall man, brown hair, grey uniform? Cleft chin, blue eyes?"

"Yes, that's right," Dr. Markov said.

"Ah," Ianto said. "I...uh. Probably shouldn't tell you anything more."

Dr. Markov nodded. "Classified. I understand. We treat a few of those here. Still, I wish the Admiral had thought to get you to a proper military hospital station. Dragging you across the sector just to get you to Earth didn't do your wounds any favours. These are what, a week old?"

"Something like that," Ianto murmured.

"Hm. Well. We'll get you fixed up, never fear." Dr. Markov nodded at his wounds. "We've already cleared and treated the wounds and slapped some nuskin on you. Because of the age of the injuries you'll probably be in treatment for a few months at least but aside from some character lines on your face, you shouldn't scar. Good thing too, gorgeous."

Ianto stared as the doctor winked at him and swept out. He still hadn't managed to determine Markov's gender. There was a knock on the door as it swung shut, and a familiar face appeared around the edge of it.

"Jack," Ianto hissed, as Jack walked into the room. "What the hell is going on? You had me timenapped?"

"I can explain everything," Jack said, holding up his hands.

"Good! Get on that!" Ianto ordered.

"Man, I forgot what a firecracker you were," Jack said with a grin, leaning hip-cocked against his bed. "Couldn't forget that pretty face, though."

Ianto reached up, almost touching the left side of his face, blocking most of it from view. Jack took his wrist lightly and pulled it away.

"Get one of the docs to show you a mirror," he said. "You look okay. You might have one little scar here, I think..." he drew a finger down Ianto's forehead, hairline to brow, "and maybe one or two around the ear. Ears, tricky things. Anyway."

"What year is it, Jack?"

"You should call me Admiral Levy. It's my name right now."

Ianto glared at him. Jack blinked.

"I definitely don't remember _that_ look," he said. "It's the fifty-first century. 5086. My home time."

"Jesus _Christ_ , Jack!"

"Look, I didn't want to do this! It's just what had to happen, because it has happened," Jack said. "There's a whole chain of events here, wrapped up in the flow of time, and for who-knows-what reason, you're part of it. It doesn't hurt that I can get you the best medical treatment five millennia of human experience can provide. This is a _good thing_. You -- would not have been quite as pretty if you'd been left in the 21st."

Ianto looked down at his hands, tangled in the sheet that was all that was preserving his dignity.

"Do I get to go home again?" he asked softly.

"I wouldn't strand you here," Jack replied, sounding so annoyed that Ianto glanced up at him. "Of course you -- what makes you think you wouldn't get to go home again?"

"Well, I don't know, do I?" Ianto asked. "For all I know this only works in one direction."

Jack ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry. It's been three thousand years, I forget what level of technology we were at back then. Okay. I'm going to see about taking you out of here for a little while, get you some coffee, we'll talk, all right?"

Ianto smiled. "You remember the coffee."

"Well, I try," Jack said modestly. "I'll be back soon."

"Jack," Ianto called, just before Jack disappeared out the door.

"Hm?" Jack asked, leaning back in.

"Look, could you find me some clothes while you're at it?"

Jack laughed -- the same laugh, the _same laugh_ , and it was so strange that Jack should be the same after three thousand years.

"Check the dresser," he said, and pointed at a slight protrusion in the wall to the left of the bed. Then he was gone.

Ianto got up and stood in front of the protrusion, the sheet still wrapped around his waist for modesty's sake. He waved a hand in front of it; nothing. he looked around suspiciously and then whispered "Open!" at it. No response. Finally he ran his fingers down the side and found a latch; when he unhooked it, the front swung out to reveal a row of drawers. The whole construction seemed needlessly complicated given he was now living in The Future.

The deep top drawer had the backpack stuffed in it; he pulled it out and opened it and almost laughed aloud. Jack had apparently packed him for The Future without thinking much about it. No clothing or toiletries -- just two James Bond books, his iPod, his favourite tie, a can of Hob Nobs, a handful of chocolate bars, and a freeze-dried packet of coffee. He set the backpack aside, still chuckling, and looked in the other drawers. Here was clothing, but not his own; perhaps this new Jack had bought it, or perhaps it came with the room. There were trousers with no elastic or belt loops, a strange sleeveless shirt with no collar, a box full of collars like the one with a buckle at the front that Jack wore, and a drawer full of pants.

Underwear hadn't changed much, which was a comforting constant in a world suddenly turned upside down. Ianto found himself standing naked in front of 51st Century Ikea Furniture, clutching a pair of boxer-briefs tightly, wondering if he'd get to drive a flying car.

***

Lo had never really been properly paid, as a Corporal, though they'd given the soldiers money when they had some to spare. If he'd needed something, he'd gone to the Quartermaster; if he'd simply _wanted_ something, he'd bargained for it or done without. Here, at Quantico, he was startled to find he had a credit account funded by an Academy scholarship, and access to an actual store where he could spend his credits.

The little store stocked everything from civs to cookies to shampoo, and had a whole wall dedicated to a dizzying array of bottled drinks, something Lo had never encountered on Boeshane or in the military. He covertly began sampling them systematically, but they were all too sweet for his taste and the Mango Fizz tasted nothing like the mangos he'd had from the trees back home. Mostly he bought simple food from the shop, meat and bread and vegetables. Cooking his own food was a strange luxury he hadn't had in some time and he enjoyed it, though nothing ever tasted quite the same as it had when his parents had cooked for him as a child.

He studied the station. He studied the rules. He'd heard Sergeant drilling the Skins in the Academy handbook's procedures, and he didn't want to be caught short when some Skin knew some rule he didn't.

A few days after the Skins arrived, the professors began to arrive too. Lo kept well out of their way, learning their names from their system profiles. Sometimes he was called to take placement exams, but most of the exams consisted simply of himself, a secure porterminal, and a timer. The only teacher he spoke with directly was the third-year Comportment instructor, a short, stern alien named Kraf who sniffed at his Attention stance and found fault with the fit of his shirt. It was also first time he'd spoken with an alien who didn't actively want to kill him; there had been a few on the trip from the hospital station to Earth, but he'd kept clear of them. When he met Kraf he knew he mustn't show fear, even though he probably already had.

"You're from the colonies, aren't you?" Kraf asked, when he was done criticising him.

"Yessir," Lo replied.

"Boeshane -- that's your planet of origin, not your surname?"

"Haven't got a surname, sir."

One of Kraf's eyestalks lifted slightly, giving new meaning to the term "eyeballed". Lo continued to stand to attention.

"You're afraid of me," Kraf told him.

Lo swallowed and considered his answer briefly. Comportment; that meant honour, carriage, and honesty. "Yessir."

"Because I'm your teacher, or because I'm not human?"

"Both, sir."

Kraf paced around him, his five lower legs carrying him in an effortless gliding motion. "Shine the backs of your boots more."

"Yessir."

When he had completed a full circle, Kraf made a noise halfway between approval and throat-clearing. "The xenophobia of humans with regards to their system security is widely known outside of their species. You are arrogant children who happen to be fast learners. While my species may respect your ingenuity, we do not acknowledge your superiority and we do not condone your exclusivity, particularly at this training school. Will you have a problem taking orders from me?"

"Nosir," Lo said sharply.

"Why not?"

"Fear is a self-imposed emotion, sir," Lo replied. Kraf's eyestalks contracted.

"Where did you learn that, young man?" he asked, his voice quieter than before.

"43rd Guerilla batallion under Sergeant Marquist, sir."

"Do you know why a man with five legs is teaching you how to wear two-legged trousers properly? Take a minute to consider it," Kraf said.

Lo did as he was told, and then licked his lips before answering. "I assume you're the best, sir."

"And that is because...?"

"You're an alien teaching at a humans-only academy, sir."

"At ease," Kraf said, and Lo relaxed a fraction. "You are approved for third-year entry to my comportment course. Shine your goddamn boots, Cadet, and get a new shirt. You're dismissed."

"Thank you, sir," Lo said, and left as quickly as he felt he could without insulting him. Kraf did scare him; his heart beat double-time when he'd seen him, and he'd fought hard against the instinct to cower. In a rustbucket, he was invincible; on the ground, such as it was, and face to face with an alien, all the terror and pain of imprisonment with the Flyers had washed over him. Now, in the corridor outside Kraf's office, he crouched down against the wall and sucked in deep breaths against the lingering panic. 

Kraf meant him no harm, he could see that; Lo wasn't stupid, and he wasn't an animal to be tied to his instincts. Kraf spoke directly, asked direct questions, and did not punish honesty. Lo had no need to anticipate games with Kraf. That was something, at least.

***

Ianto was in the hospital for three days before he was deemed fit enough to travel; Dr. Markov told him that if he'd been treated sooner he could have left in the space of a few hours, but they had to be sure he hadn't picked up anything nasty and that he wouldn't reject the nuskin. Ianto poked at the bandages in the mirror sometimes; they were warm, and felt like real skin, but there was no sensation where he touched them. Every day around three o'clock someone came in to peel the skin off his face and put new (nu, hah) skin on it. It was gross, but he had to admit it was effective, and apparently at some point the nuskin would permanently bond to the healing skin underneath, which was what would prevent scarring.

Jack came to visit him every day. Which in some ways, Ianto thought, was worse than the other Jack not visiting at all the week before.

He liked getting out of the hospital for a few minutes, to the place across the street. It sold what was apparently standard coffee for the 51st; too sweet, not hot enough, but the caffeine rush was the same. He liked seeing Jack, too. It was just that they didn't end up having much to talk about. But Jack talked a lot, and Ianto was used to that, so it was all one in the end.

Jack obviously remembered him, but he didn't really remember _him_. Just a name, a few details, the knowledge that once they'd been lovers, and a vague sense that Ianto had perhaps not been his usual casual fling.

"It's a bit of a blow to the ego, you know," Ianto told him on the day he was discharged. He had the backpack next to him on the bench-seat at the diner, filled now not just with his books and iPod and snacks but most of the clothing from the dresser as well. It packed down neatly. He watched Jack's fingers flitting from coffee cup to sugar spork to saucer. "Though I suppose I should be pleased you remembered me this long."

Jack smiled. "Sorry. I try to keep what I can, but it starts to slip away. Seeing you sometimes triggers things..."

Ianto shrugged. "I knew you'd outlive me."

"Three thousand years isn't a bad record. There are people I knew last year I can't place now," Jack told him with a grin.

Ianto changed the subject, because it made him feel uncomfortable and vaguely sad.

"So...I don't think we can be speaking English," he said. "Not my English anyway."

Jack shook his head. "We're not. Gift of the TARDIS."

Ianto frowned.

"It gets in your head," Jack said. "It flips some little switch, maybe, I don't know much about it. We're speaking Galactic Standard Low. But if someone speaks to you in Galactic Standard High, or any one of another thousand languages, you'd still hear it as English."

"That's...creepy," Ianto said.

"Useful, though," Jack replied. "Try not to think too hard about it."

Jack had said that a lot, while teaching Ianto as much as he could; he seemed to think it was important that he know how to integrate, even though it apparently wouldn't even need to be a secret that he was a time traveler.

They finished their drinks and Jack paid the bill; they stepped out on the street and there he was, Ianto Jones, Chrono-displaced asylum seeker, next of kin Admiral Brian Levy.

"You're not staying, are you?" he asked. "With me, I mean."

Jack shook his head and guided him down the pavement, towards a dark vehicle that was obviously waiting for them near the hospital. "I can't. And I can't take you with me."

"What am I supposed to do, then?" Ianto asked. Jack opened the door and held it for him, then climbed in after him. Ianto realised he was sitting in what could best be described as a hover-sedan.

"I've arranged a job for you," Jack said, passing him a shiny new porterminal. He'd seen them in the hospital, even been allowed to use one to set up an email account and visit "the Wik", a sprawling descendant of Wikipedia. The porterminals looked a little like the demon spawn of an iPhone and a GPS unit, but he had to admit they were useful, and they worked with _everything._ Apparently platform incompatibility was a thing of the past.

Ianto flicked on the porterminal screen and found that he was looking down at his own face: a photograph taken in the hospital, the doctors had _said_ for records purposes. Next to it was a title, and a little bio. 

"A librarian?" he asked Jack, looking up. "You got me a job as a librarian?"

Jack leaned back on the seat of the hover-sedan and smiled. "It'll keep you out of trouble."

"I don't know anything about being a librarian in the future," Ianto protested. He looked back down and his eyes widened. "A _military_ librarian?"

"You spent two years as Torchwood's archivist," Jack said.

"You remember that?" Ianto asked, momentarily distracted.

"I checked the records," Jack confessed.

"You can be such a bastard sometimes -- "

"You'll do fine," Jack interrupted. "It's a small library on Quantico Station. You'll be half an hour's flight from Earth the whole time. You do a year there while you get some rehab for your face, and then we'll get you home again."

"Why can't I stay with you?" Ianto asked. Jack looked -- hesitant, as if he'd been about to make a joke and decided it wasn't the time for it.

"There's still a war on," he said. "I'm going back to the front after I see you settled. And it's not a good idea, anyway. I could reveal too much about your future -- your immediate future on Earth, I mean, when you get to your home time again. I might not even mean to do it."

"So it's me and a load of strangers in a century I know nothing about," Ianto said.

"Well....yes," Jack answered, sighing. "But it won't be hard. Quantico Station is the military academy for the fleet. You'll be with a couple of academics, a few soldiers, and fifteen hundred trainees. They'll respect you. It's safe there," he insisted. "I don't know why I brought you forward. I only know that I had to, because I remembered having done it. So all I can do is try to keep you as safe as possible."

The hover-sedan (seriously, a hover-sedan) pulled to a gentle halt, and Jack beamed at him. "Besides, you're gonna _love_ my spaceship. Come on."

***

The morning after his encounter with Kraf, Lo found a message on Memo Base ordering him to MedBay at 0930. He made breakfast, checked that the backs of his boots were properly polished, studied the handbook for an hour, and then reported as ordered. MedBay gave him bad memories of his first few days after escaping from the Flyers, when he'd been confined to a shipboard MedBay before being transferred to a proper military hospital -- but they were just memories, and he had worse.

"Cadet Lo Boeshane, reporting per orders," he said to the duty nurse. She barely looked up; just tapped something into her porterminal and studied the screen.

"Chaplain Sergeant Burton will see you," she said, and walked away. Lo watched her for a second, wondering if he should follow, then ran to catch up. She continued on around a corner and past a row of doors, rapping smartly on the furthest but one. Lo counted the other doorways while they waited.

"Come in," someone called from inside, and she opened the door, gesturing him through. Lo passed into a small office and glanced around quickly even as he snapped to attention. You never knew how much you'd need to know about a place.

There was a database port in the left wall, a scroll screen on the right showing a slowly rotating planet Earth; straight ahead, a wall of old paper books, mixed in with random knick-knacks. A desk in front of him, too, with a lean man behind it, in the most bizarre uniform Lo had ever seen. It was a brightly-coloured, garishly-patterned shirt, with an open collar and insignia stripes obviously hand-sewn onto the short sleeves.

"At ease," the man said. "Cadet Boeshane, yes?"

"Yessir," Lo said.

"Have a seat, Cadet. You must be the Ghost," the man told him, and Lo frowned. "I'm Chaplain Burton, I'm in charge of mental health services and spiritual counseling here at the Academy."

"I know, sir," Lo said, before he could stop himself.

"You do?" the Chaplain raised an eyebrow.

"Yessir. I found your profile on the system page."

"Let's...ease up on the sir a little," Chaplain Burton said. "Most of the cadets just call me Chaplain."

Lo nodded. "Yes, Chaplain."

Chaplain made a quick wry face and then continued. "I've been monitoring your performance in your placement exams. You've done better than anticipated, I think; you'll be fine in third-year for most of your courses. Composition, Tactics, Comportment -- Kraf had some very interesting observations about you."

"I bet he did, Chaplain," Lo said with a small grin. Chaplain grinned back.

"You're a little iffy in Science but we're going to put you in third year and hope for the best. Smitty thinks you can catch up quickly. Pendleton actually thinks you should be in fourth-year mathematics, but he's basing that on your navigational trig, and there's more to life than navigation. You're extremely sketchy in history, but I think you probably know this."

"I know the history of Boeshane, Chaplain." Lo said. "And military history back to the late 23rd century."

"Earth History, kiddo. Earth history," Chaplain replied. "Learn it, love it."

Lo stifled the urge to complain about the relevance of Earth history, and he thought he'd done a good job, but Chaplain caught it.

"You have an objection to Earth history, Lo?"

"Don't see why I need it, Chaplain. I know the colonisation era, all the relevant military history, and my home planet's history," he pointed out.

"Aren't you interested in where you came from?"

"With all due respect, Chaplain, I came from Boeshane, by way of the 43rd Guerilla Battallion," Lo told him.

He expected a frown or an objection, but instead Chaplain laughed.

"All right then, Cadet, consider it a hoop to jump through before you have to graduate. It won't be the last. I'll send a copy of your course registration to your account. After this semester, you'll be responsible for your own registration; study the course catalog and if you have any questions speak to your academics advisor. Who I see is...hm." He looked down at his porterminal. "Kraf asked specifically to be your advisor. He must have taken a shine to you."

"Likes to tell me my shirt's not tucked right," Lo replied daringly. Chaplain laughed again.

"On to other matters," he said. "Admiral Cullen sent me word that you're coming here from a battle zone, is that right?"

"Yes, Chaplain."

"Did you have any counseling when you were demobbed?" Chaplain asked, with a sort of...careful air.

"No, Chaplain," Lo shook his head.

"Whyever not?"

"Didn't know I should, Chaplain."

"Well, you definitely should," Chaplain replied. "I'd like to see you on a weekly basis, to start, to discuss any lingering effects you have. You'll be here for checkups on your injuries, so we'll just incorporate it as part of your treatment. Sound good to you?"

"Yes, Chaplain."

Chaplain sighed. "Okay. For now, that's all. Did you have any questions?"

Lo considered this. He could ask why he was supposed to be counseled, and what on; or he could ask about the professors, he supposed. But either might be signs of weakness.

"Earlier you said I must be the Ghost," he said. "What ghost?"

Chaplain looked surprised. "You didn't know? It's what the Skins call you. Sergeant has them half-convinced you're not real. They think you're a lucky charm -- you know, if they see you in the hallway they'll do well at drill, or some nonsense like that. Soldiers are very superstitious, I've found."

"Oh," Lo said, uncertainly.

"How does that make you feel?"

Lo frowned. "Should it make me feel something, Chaplain?"

"Well -- pride, annoyance, dismay, arrogance -- surely you feel something, Lo? Five hundred kids think you're something incorporeal, only there for their benefit."

"Doesn't matter," Lo said. "They're nothing to do with me."

Being thought a monster by monsters had been far worse, anyway.

"Lo, tell me what you were just thinking," Chaplain said, and Lo started. "I need you to tell me what you think, so I can help you figure out if it's okay or not."

"They're my thoughts," Lo said, suddenly annoyed. "Why wouldn't they be okay to think?"

Chaplain just looked at him, patient, silent, like the Flyers used to.

"I've had worse, Chaplain," Lo said, finally.

"Like what?"

"In the war, the Flyers thought I was a monster. They thought my family was target practice," Lo said, because that was at least partway to the truth of what he'd been thinking. "I don't mind being a ghost to a bunch of people who can't hurt me, Chaplain."

Another long, measuring look. Lo fought the urge to squirm.

"We'll talk about this more next week," Chaplain said. "Until then, focus on your upcoming classes, all right? Check your schedule, download any course materials, learn your way around the station."

"Yes, Chaplain," Lo said. For practice, he mentally called up the map of the section they were in and mapped out three different escape routes to the shuttle bay should the Flyers hit the station.

"You're dismissed," Chaplain told him, with what he recognised as kindness, though he wasn't sure why.

Lo walked out into the hall, down to the front station. He checked in with the nurse to be sure nothing further was required, then left MedBay entirely and went to his room. He took his boots off, sat down on the bed, and called up his new courses.

Ten minutes later, while he was reading the notes for his first Composition lecture, the text began to blur; it took him a second to realise he was crying, and he didn't know why. He drew his knees up to his chest, set the porterminal aside, and buried his face in the comforting, slightly scratchy fabric of his trousers. He'd get snot on them, but they'd wash.

He gave himself precisely two and a half minutes to cry, and then tried wiping the tears away, staring at a seam in the wall of his room to distract him from -- _it_ , from whatever was hurting so badly. Loneliness, he decided, as he shed his uniform shirt and shucked off his trousers, reaching for the neatly-folded pyjama bottoms at the foot of the bed. He hadn't really talked to anyone since arriving, hadn't had sex in _ages_.

Sex was probably it.

He didn't bother to pull the pyjamas up all the way; just leaned back against the headboard and lifted his hips enough to get his underwear down. He didn't dare picture Mirra, the girl he'd seen bathing on Boe and the star of many imaginative scenarios when he'd been an undersexed rookie with the 43rd; instead he rolled through the soldiers he'd slept with, the doctor on the hospital ship with her gentle hands, the tourists on the transport -- and Admiral Levy, who had sent him here, who had politely declined his brief unspoken offer. Admiral Levy was handsome and seemed like he _understood_ , and he'd had that gorgeous ship, oh such a lovely ship --

Lo knew it was probably messed up to jerk himself off thinking of a ship, even a ship like Amelia, but he hadn't felt so alive in months as when he'd bolted her out of the docking bay, and he couldn't really find it in himself to be upset that he came while handling himself like he'd handle her control yoke.

Exhausted, sniffly, and still sad in a way he couldn't even identify, he cleaned himself up and fell asleep on his bed in the middle of the morning.

***

Quantico Station reminded Ianto of nothing so much as a shopping centre, one of the big malls like they had in London and were building in the Cardiff suburbs. It didn't look like one, physically; it was all steel walls and bright lights, hallways and doors. It just had that same air about it, of a totally enclosed and self-sufficient space, which he supposed it was. He kept expecting one of the doors to open into a Debenhams.

He was still reeling a little bit from the flight -- seeing Earth from space had been staggering, to say nothing of the speed of the ship and its disconcerting habit of talking to him, remarking on his good looks and asking Jack questions about him. He was content to let Jack handle his check-in with a cranky-looking sergeant and then follow Jack through the corridors until they came to a pair of wide glass doors. Inside there was an enormous round desk covered in evenly-spaced lamps, and several walls of books.

"Behold," Jack said, spreading his arms. "Your library."

Ianto looked around. "It's not very futuristic, is it?"

"Au contraire," Jack corrected, and led him to one enormous blank wall covered in some kind of data ports. "Plug your porterminal into any of these and you have access to the entirety of human literary history. There's a pretty good selection of alien works, too. The books are mostly for show."

"So I see," Ianto said, turning to study one of the shelves. It was dusty, which was weird; you didn't think about dust in space stations.

"You can clean it later," Jack told him, taking his hand as he raised it to wipe dust off the spine of a book. He pulled him gently along past the books to a door in the back, which led straight into a sitting room, with a long counter dividing it from a kitchen.

"Home," Jack told him.

"I live in a library," Ianto replied.

"You live next to a library," Jack corrected. "What do you think?"

Ianto had to admit it was nice, nicer than his place in Cardiff. There were windows -- no, scroll screens, that was the term -- set into every wall, showing various views of Earth, the stars, planets that might or might not belong in his solar system. The furniture looked soft and inviting, and the tables and shelves were made of wood. The kitchen had a few boxy objects he couldn't immediately identify. The walls were soft pastel yellow, unlike the steel walls of the rest of the station.

"It's nice," he said uncertainly. Jack opened his mouth to reply, but there was a buzz from behind them before he could.

"Come in," Jack called. The door opened and a slight, young-looking woman entered.

"Admiral Levy," she said, with a little half-bow. "Sarge notified me that Mr. Jones had arrived."

"He has," Jack replied. "Ianto, this is Steward...?"

"Steward Blithe, sir," she said.

"Steward Blithe. She's a sort of support-staff for the instructors. Blithe, this is Ianto Jones."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jones," she said. "I thought I'd come by and say hello."

"The Steward can answer any questions you have," Jack told him. "She can get you anything you can't get on the station, look after things if you need help, that kind of thing. She knows everything about the station."

"She's me," Ianto whispered to Jack.

"She's hot," Jack whispered back. Blithe looked unconcerned by their exchange.

"Did you need anything, Mr. Jones?" she asked, when Ianto looked at her again. "I've stocked your coldbox with some food, and I understand as a chrono-displaced resident you may be unfamiliar with some of the equipment in your quarters."

"No, that's -- thank you, I don't...need anything right now," Ianto said. "You're, erm. Dismissed?"

She smiled at him, gave them both another half-bow, and left quickly. Ianto stared at the door, uncertain how to even start to gather his scattered wits.

"The station will send you a schedule and Blithe can get you up to speed, when you're ready," Jack said finally, turning to face him. "This is where I leave you, I'm afraid."

"Jack..." Ianto wanted to say something about how he was just being dumped here, with no preparation and no real knowledge of why, but he couldn't figure out how. He was tired, and his clothes were all wrong, and he'd just been introduced to someone who did a job that really should be his, and there was no Torchwood, and he wasn't in Cardiff, and he missed Gwen and _his_ Jack, the Jack that knew him and didn't have grey in his hair.

"I'm sorry," Jack said softly, as if he could read his mind. "Don't be scared."

"Too late," Ianto answered.

"You'll be fine." Jack ran a hand down his arm, squeezed his fingers, and stepped in close. "I trust you. Trust yourself."

Ianto nodded, looking away from Jack's eyes. Jack touched his cheek, turned him back so that they faced each other, and kissed him.

It was meant to be a kiss goodbye. Ianto was fully aware of that. But he'd been shot and drugged, and then kidnapped by an alien, and taken here to this space station that he didn't know anything about, and the one familiar thing in the world right now was Jack kissing him. It was instinct that made him open his mouth, tilt his head and deepen the kiss.

Jack didn't pull away. Instead he inhaled slightly and closed the gap between them, pulling Ianto's body flush with his, one hand on his face and the other on his hip. Jack still tasted like the too-sweet coffee they'd had at the diner.

Ianto tilted his head back when Jack slid his mouth down to his jaw, along the line of his throat, and now Jack's fingers were on the buckle of the stupid shirt collar everyone wore, undoing it, pulling the snaps apart, working down the buttons on his shirt. Three thousand years in the future and they still had buttons, and Ianto was pulling Jack's shirt out of his weird beltless trousers.

"This, I remember," Jack said against the skin of his shoulder, but Ianto was busy backing him towards a door that hopefully led to the bedroom and not the loo --

Yes, a bedroom, with a large bed and two sleek nightstands and an enormous dark scroll screen, but the bed looked comfortable and the blanket was soft when he fell back onto it, still scrambling to get Jack out of his trousers. They'd left their shoes somewhere near the door.

In the dark of the bedroom he couldn't see the grey at Jack's temples. He could feel his body, though, the smooth skin, the unchanging shape of Jack's chest and hips, a comforting sameness. Jack was still kissing his shoulders and biting gently at his throat, rocking against him as they settled onto the bed. There was something almost endearingly desperate about it, when Ianto knew full well Jack couldn't possibly remember the last time they'd had sex (against Ianto's kitchen counter, the morning he was shot). Jack had probably had tons of it since, especially as this century was supposedly famous for everyone having sex all the time. 

Or maybe he just liked that Ianto called him Jack, when everyone else called him Admiral.

He was getting close, he could feel it, and he could tell by Jack's moans (god, Jack really hadn't changed, at least not in this) that he was too. He pulled Jack's face up and kissed him again, and Jack cried out into his mouth and came, and Ianto barely had time to wonder how one did laundry in The Future when he came as well.

There had to be some kind of name for this, like the Mile High club. The Century Ahead club, perhaps.

He let his head fall back while he caught his breath, Jack sprawled on top of him and mumbling incoherently against his chest. After a while that stopped, and Ianto lifted a hand, unseeing, to run it through Jack's hair.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," Jack said, muffled a little where his face was pressed to Ianto's skin.

"Well, I hear this is a very liberated century," Ianto replied. Jack laughed and pulled himself up, resting his elbows on either side of Ianto's arms, looking down at him.

"Thank you," he said, with such sincerity that Ianto's heart broke for him a little. Then Jack rolled away, off the bed, and reached for his shirt. He looked at it, shrugged, and cleaned himself up with it; when Ianto stood, Jack stopped him with a hand on his chest and did the same for him.

"You have to leave," Ianto said, half-questioning.

"Yeah. Galaxies to save, you know how it is," Jack replied, not looking at him as he pulled on his trousers. He tossed the shirt in a little box nearby, which hummed briefly and then beeped and spat it up clean.

"Convenient," Ianto remarked, gesturing at the box.

"Sometimes," Jack agreed, shrugging the shirt on. Ianto found his own clothing and began dressing again. "You'll be fine here."

"Of course." Ianto hesitated, but what the hell did he have to lose at this point? "Will you be back?"

"If I can," Jack answered. He leaned in and kissed him again as Ianto was doing up his shirt. "It's -- "

"Dangerous, yes, we covered that," Ianto drawled.

"I see what I liked about you the first time around," Jack told him. "Collar straight?"

"Impeccable," Ianto answered, and walked him to the door. "Jack..."

"Hm?" Jack turned as the door opened.

"Be safe," Ianto told him. Jack smiled, saluted him, and walked out.

Ianto stood in the sitting room for a little while, at least as confused as before, and finally summed up the entire horrible week in a single word.

"Fuck," he said feelingly.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning after Lo's visit to the Chaplain, the upperclassmen began arriving.

Lo hadn't realised they'd be quite so...big.

It wasn't that he was exactly small himself, but he'd become used to the Skins, most of whom were his age or only a year older. When the Cadets and Senior Cadets arrived, it became apparent that they _were_ older than him -- twenty, twenty-two, twenty-three for some, to his seventeen. They were full-grown and Lo was still not, quite. He watched them from around corners and down hallways and felt small. This wouldn't be a problem if he still had a rustbucket; if you were a pilot you were an adult, and how old you were didn't matter, but here it seemed to, somehow.

He left them alone, the same way he had the Skins, until one of them banged past his door, dropped a trunk outside the door next to his, and kicked it through when the door opened. Even then he might have ignored her, but she waved his door open as well and walked in as if she owned his room.

"Hiya," she said, as if barging in on him was the most natural thing in the world. "Jesus, they make 'em scrawny these days. If this room's Cadet catches you in here he'll shave your head himself."

Lo regarded her curiously. "I am this room's Cadet."

"What are you, sixteen? Seventeen? You're not a Cadet. Come on." She whistled, gesturing at the door. "I'll be nice, but out you go."

"Cadet Lo Boeshane," he replied, still not getting up from his seat on the bed. "And you are?"

She looked at him. "You're really serious. Nobody put you in here as a prank? This was Brackenridge's room last year."

"No prank," he replied.

"I'm Cadet Myles," she told him. "I don't remember you."

"You wouldn't," he said. "I'm entering this year."

She put her hands on her hips. "Oh."

And she left. Lo sat there for a while, considering matters, then went to his door and checked it for lock mechanisms. He hadn't felt the need to, earlier; he had nothing worth stealing, nobody was around, and he had assumed people wouldn't just walk into his room without knocking first. No locks. Hm.

When a Senior Cadet did the same thing, a minute later, Lo started to get annoyed. This one didn't seem to notice Lo's youth, as Cadet Myles had, just wandered in and asked if he could borrow Lo's porterminal dock for a minute, since his wouldn't go without a cold restart of the handheld. Lo waved absently at the dock and went back to his work, but after a second he looked up again.

"Is this usual?" he asked the Senior Cadet. "People coming in and out of each others' rooms like this?"

The Senior Cadet looked at him with a tilt of his head. "Yeah, why? What are you, new?"

"Yes," Lo replied. "I'm entering at Cadet level."

The Senior Cadet snorted. "Good luck with that. Thanks. Seeya."

Lo didn't especially like the idea of anyone being able to come into his room at any time. The potential for pranks, mishaps, and theft seemed high. On the other hand, if it was SOP, he didn't want to get off on the wrong foot by putting a chair firmly in front of the door so that all unauthorized entrants would trip over it.

Life would be so much easier if he were back in the barracks, and he never thought for a second he'd actually miss the war.

He pondered for a while and then decided on a compromise, pulling out his desk chair and placing it in the middle of the floor, equidistant from desk, bed, and doorway. If anyone tried to come in after the 2200 lights-out in the hallway, or if someone tried to run in and attack him during the day, the chair would work like a charm. Ordinary visitors would be perfectly able to walk around it. Satisfied, he returned to his NavTrig review.

He'd been at it for about twenty minutes when his alarm went; time to report to the MedBay. They were changing his nuskin again today, and he was hoping the latest graft would take, so that he'd actually have nerve perception in his ribcage again.

He encountered other Cadets and Senior Cadets in the halls, in various states of dress, some obviously fresh from a shuttle and others pulling on their uniforms or borrowing bits of uniforms off others. It reminded him pleasantly of off days in the 43rd, and nobody averted their eyes when he passed. A few stared, but Lo held his head high and didn't pay them any mind.

The MedBay was also busy, full of upperclassmen getting health checks and reporting injuries suffered from moving in: broken fingers, sprained shoulders, easy fixes but obviously too many at once for the staff to easily handle. A nurse looked at his record, sighed, and led him to one of the exam cubicles, abandoning him there with orders to wait until a doctor could be made available to deal with him.

Lo took off his shirt and sat down in the exam chair, glancing to his right. There was another chair in the room with a man sitting in it, eyes closed. His face was startling: half of it was a mess of wet raw flesh, the remains of a bad burn, with ragged edges where the nuskin had obviously just been removed. He was a handsome man, too old to be a Cadet but sort of young for an instructor, and he was in civs. He had sleek black hair, pretty fingers, and a sort of coiled stillness about him which spoke to the kind of tension at being here that Lo could relate to.

The man seemed disinclined to talk, and Lo wasn't sure how to address someone in civs, here on the station. He kept quiet, working on his porterminal as the doctor came in and saw to the other man's face. He called him Jones; Lo filed the name away mentally. Jones spoke softly when he spoke at all, with an odd, almost musical accent Lo couldn't place.

"Who was that?" he asked the doctor, after Jones had left.

"New librarian," the doctor said, focusing on removing the nuskin from Lo's chest. "Mr. Jones. Seems nice. Poor man's probably totally lost; he's chrono-displaced."

"Chrono-displaced? Really?" Lo asked, interested.

"I don't have all the details..." the doctor paused to discard the old bandage, then picked up a strip of fresh nuskin and began applying it, "...but I understand he's from the past. Admiral Levy brought him onboard."

"Is Admiral Levy here?" Lo asked eagerly.

"Nope, he hardly stopped at all. Just dropped Mr. Jones off and left again. Rumour has it he's headed back to the front, but you didn't hear that from me."

"Oh," Lo said, disappointed. "I guess he's a busy man."

"You guess right. Okay, I think this will last you at least two weeks, and if the grafts take you should know -- you'll start getting sensation back. If not, check in, we'll fix you up," the doctor said, and moved back so that Lo could put his shirt back on. "Good luck in classes, Boeshane."

"Thank you," Lo said, and left to brave the crowds of upperclassmen again.

***

Settling into his new life took less time than Ianto thought it would. Everything in The Future was disconcertingly easy to operate, and even the vast, sprawling library database was downright intuitive after years of working with the Hub's eccentric information system. He had a precious few, quiet days in the library before classes started, and he put them to good use. He learned everything he could about the library, and if he couldn't learn it himself he asked the Steward, who had developed the habit of stopping by every morning for drinks and gossip.

"This coffee is bitter," she told him on the first morning of classes, as he brought her a cup along with his own. "It's also too hot."

"This is the way coffee is _supposed_ to be," he informed her. He wasn't sure what he'd do once he ran out of the coffee Jack had sent along in his backpack, but he imagined he'd get used to too-sweet, not-hot-enough caffeine. Maybe he could figure out what was wrong with it and fix it somehow.

"Maybe three thousand years ago," Blithe answered. "Since then we've developed this wonderful innovation where our food actually tastes good."

"Inauthentic, I call it," he replied, and she laughed. She set the mug down and rested a hand on his arm, which was a little startling.

"First day of classes today," she said, her thumb rubbing his skin in a small, gentle circle. "You'll be busy up till closing time. Message me if you need help, will you?"

"Of course," he said, still looking down at her hand.

"And if you feel up to it, I'd like to come by this evening," she continued.

Ianto looked up, startled, because he was almost certain --

"In an unofficial capacity," she said.

Yep. Definitely certain.

"I, uh," he managed. A few dozen thoughts passed through his head at once, the foremost of which was that he'd never been forced to consider the ethics of sleeping with someone in the fifty-first century when his boyfriend was, simultaneously, stuck back in the twenty-first _and_ shipping off to a war in the present. Not that this Jack was his boyfriend, after all, but sleeping with Jack was sleeping with Jack no matter what era one found oneself in, so it didn't really count as infidelity. And it wasn't like Jack usually cared much about that kind of thing.

But Ianto did, in his own way.

He wished desperately for a manual on Temporal Living. Even a pamphlet would be helpful.

"...or not?" Blithe said, and Ianto realised he'd never really finished his sentence.

"I'm...from...a different time," he hedged. "Still adjusting. Not that I wouldn't like that, but it's all a bit...complicated."

She raised an eyebrow. "Was that yes or no?"

Ianto breathed out slowly. "How about 'not yet'?"

Blithe smiled and nodded. "Well, when you get to 'yet', keep me at the top of the list?" she asked lightly.

"People keep _lists?_ " Ianto blurted.

"I suspect after today you might have to," she said, which was rather cryptic, and patted his arm before releasing it. "Just bear in mind that I'm here to help out. With _anything._ "

"I will do that," Ianto replied.

When she was gone, he leaned against the library desk and rested his face in his hands.

The students did start trickling in that day, first a few studious upperclassmen at lunch and then a stampede of all sorts after classes were over. Most ignored the books, preferring to plug into the data ports and then wander over to the study tables with their downloads. He watched them with the same suspicion that they had for him, suspicion tinged with awe in the case of the first-year students.

There were dampers built into the room to automate the noise level, so he didn't even have to shush anyone. Nevertheless, the job wasn't entirely composed of watching the future command of the Fleet study their textbooks. There was a constant stream of students coming to his desk to ask questions or request assistance with the database. He helped them as much as he could, although some of them...well, they just didn't seem to need _that_ much help, and he heard soft voices say the word _twenty-first century_ more than once.

He was a curiosity, then.

But of course he was studying them too, and this was all as strange and new to him as he was to the rest of the station. To them, Ianto's presence on the station was -- well, it was as if an ancient Greek had wandered into the Cardiff high street back home, bought a suit, and got a job as an accountant. At least he had the advantage of having worked for Torchwood and read a significant amount of science fiction. This wasn't as strange for him as it could be. 

There were a handful of students, that day and in the days that followed, who stood out a little from the crowd. The first he noticed were a pair of young women from the Skins group, with their bare heads and their drab uniforms, who sat together and held hands, openly affectionate, obviously in love. It was something no-one else remarked on, but Ianto -- for all his knowledge of this century's attitudes -- still found it somewhat amazing. And, once he'd worked through his surprise, rather touching. The first-year students didn't have it easy, but the women seemed to find joy in one another, and it was nice to see such unabashed happiness.

There was a dark-haired Senior Cadet who spent all his spare time in the library, obviously making up for earlier years of indifferent studying. He often came to Ianto with questions far below his learning level, and seemed surprised when he figured out the answers easily under Ianto's guidance. There was also a study group composed entirely of "Twos" led by a Cadet, whose patience with the restless underclassmen was admirable.

And then there was a tense, handsome boy who always sat in the corner, facing the entrance and Ianto's desk, looking far too young for the Cadet's uniform he wore. He heard murmurs about the boy: a war veteran already, a sponsored student, someone the Skins called Ghost. He didn't seem to lack for company; his classmates were easy enough with him that Ianto could tell the talk was probably good-natured, for the most part. But he did look lonely, and sometimes Ianto found himself being watched covertly, which made him nervous. He wasn't sure what a teenaged war veteran would want with him.

Still, he had little time to muse on the Ghost's problems (or to sulk at Jack's absence, another pastime he had looked forward to indulging in) between his own studies in integration and his time with the students. It wasn't Torchwood, but perhaps that was just as well.

For the first time in years, he felt like he was getting enough sleep at night.

***

Flight classes started a week after normal classes did, and for Lo it was like a reward for not strangling anyone in the meantime.

He hadn't been in a classroom since he was a kid, and the closest thing he'd had in the interim were briefings, short affairs that for a pilot never lasted more than ten minutes. He got restless, sitting for hours behind a desk, and he had to stifle the urge to tap his feet, drum his fingers, let his eyes wander. The first time Kraf had caught him drumming his fingers in Comportment, he'd had to do press-ups on his fingertips in front of the class while Kraf continued the lecture. It had been amusing, really, and he'd worked off some excess energy doing it, so he didn't mind, per se; as a rookie pilot he'd had worse. But it had been a little mortifying, as well, and he didn't need that kind of attention.

Classwork was entertaining enough, and some of it was a decent challenge, but he lost his patience with the long lectures. Already irritated, he'd leave the classroom and then come across some harmless immaturity from his fellow students in the halls, and that would annoy him enough to send him back to his own room for a little bit of peace. He was familiar with the easy camaraderie of soldiers, but Quantico's version was like a child's imitation of it. There was a reason, in a fighting unit, not to get too close, to keep your friends at arm's length with jokes and name-calling. You never knew who wouldn't come back from the next skirmish. Here, in the safe walls of Quantico, it seemed perversity to do so. It made him impatient.

Soon, though, he would have a chance to get out of the station, even if it was only into the cold vacuum of space. He would have a copilot he could depend on, and twice a week he would have the freedom of a ship's control yoke under his hands. The morning of his first flight class he woke up excited, and even NavTrig with the Senior Cadets beforehand couldn't dampen his enthusiasm.

"You're bright-eyed today," one of the Senior Cadets said, casually blocking his exit from the room. Lo stood to attention and lifted his chin.

"Eager to be at flight class, sir," he said. She grinned at him.

"Wing-head," she said affectionately, and let him pass. Lo ran down the hallway, dodging around other students, and arrived at the shuttle bay while the earlier class was still letting out. He stopped dead and snapped to attention when he saw Admiral Cullen standing in the bay.

"Boeshane, isn't it?" she asked, consulting her porterminal.

"Yes, sir," he replied smartly.

"At ease, Cadet. On deck I'm Flight Instructor, not Admiral," she said. Lo relaxed a fraction. "Well, you're eager enough. Ready to get your flight clearance?"

" _Yes_ , sir," he said fervently. Behind the Admiral there was a row of ships, small two-man jobs, nicer than his old rustbucket but well below the level of Admiral Levy's gorgeous Amelia. One of them was crooked to the others.

"Hm, points off to whoever made that landing," Cullen said, following his gaze. "Not everyone who passes the final clearance gets top marks. In you go, take your pick."

Lo started forward for the nearest ship, then hesitated. He approached more cautiously, inspecting the hull and engines. There was something off about it; he wasn't sure quite what, but if it were a rustbucket he'd be worried about the roll stabilisers.

Admiral Cullen was watching him.

The second one was dented, but he couldn't see anything actually wrong with it, at least not from the outside. The inner controls looked all right. Still...

He skipped the rest of the line and went to examine the crookedly-aligned one on the end. It didn't seem any better or worse than the others, but the wonky landing would make takeoff difficult again.

Lo grinned and climbed into the pilot's seat. One of the displays flickered to life.

"Good choice, Boeshane," said the Admiral, looking up at him from the display. "Hold there for your copilot."

Her face disappeared from the screen, but he could still hear her voice, greeting students by name and encouraging them to choose a ship. Students weren't cleared for independent flight until they were Cadets, but from the sound of it a lot of last year's Twos had taken assisted flight courses, and a couple of this year's Senior Cadets were brushing up on their skills. A mixed wing, just like in the 43rd. He familiarised himself with the straps and controls -- another pressurised cabin, which meant no flight mask -- and did a pre preflight-check check.

There was a thump on the hull, and then someone climbed into the other seat. Another Cadet, which was nice; he might not think much of some of the Senior Cadets, but he still understood the power they held and he didn't want one whining because they had to fly copilot to a junior. She looked familiar --

"You again," she said, laughing, and he realised she was the Cadet who'd threatened to punt him from his room the day they arrived. Myles. "I promise not to kick you out this time."

"Obliged," he said. "Preflight?"

"Lay it on me."

"You okay with copiloting?"

Myles flashed a grin. "It's what I do. I'm going to make your thrust stabilisers the sexiest thing you've ever seen, and I'm going to make you like it."

"Big talk. Okay," he said, and talked her through their preflight proper. She caught one or two things he wouldn't have, unfamiliar with the controls as he was; some of the manual operations on a rustbucket were automated in this version. Then the scroll screen lit up, and Admiral Cullen was once again gazing down on them.

"Attention," she said, and Lo settled back for a pep talk. "This will be a simulation to make sure none of you are going to crash before you get out of the bay. We've spent a lot of money on you and on those ships; it'd be a shame to waste it now."

Lo could hear chuckles over his helmet comm. He keyed them into a private channel.

"Hey, do you shit-talk?" he asked Myles.

"Nobody shit-talks during flight," she replied. "And if Cullen catches you on a private channel, she'll kick your ass."

"Seriously?" he asked. "I used to shit-talk in _battle._ "

"When the hell were you in battle?"

Lo bit his lip and flicked them over to the public comm again.

"When were you shit-talking in battle?" Myles insisted in a whisper, over Cullen's simulator instructions.

"Keeps you alert," Lo whispered back. "Gives your mouth something to do."

"Man, you had more fun instructors than I've had."

"The shit-talking, is that an actual rule?" Lo asked.

"Listen, Boeshane, I just want to get my clearance so I can -- " Myles stopped mid-hiss as the sim kicked in and Lo jerked the control yoke back. The artificial gravity in the shuttle responded the way it would in combat, throwing them back in their seats before stabilising, and if he didn't know the power couplings had been deactivated he'd believe they were already jetting crookedly out of the bay doors, above and a little ahead of the others.

"Coo-ee," he breathed. Myles' hands were dancing over the controls, easing him into an open throttle so he could really put the ship through its paces. The other ships were scattering, some trying to catch him up, others jerkily exploring the simulated world beyond the bay. Out of habit, Lo banked high and did a flat spin, taking in the entire expanse of space -- Earth below and behind, Quantico ahead and just off his nose, the moon a bright white jewel and the sun a blind spot past that.

"Boeshane, get with the program," someone said over the comm, but Lo was busy scanning for raiders, checking on the integrity of Quantico's outer hull the way he'd been taught to do with the 43rd's flagship.

"How do you know we're not?" Myles asked, and there was a grumble from the ships below. "Y'all want to see something, get up here with _our_ program."

"How about neither of you are with the program?" said Cullen's voice, clear and crisp. "This is a drill, cadets. On my coordinates please."

Lo eased the ship down to the coordinates Cullen was transmitting, checking his airspace to make sure nobody was going to nudge him. Even a simulation, he didn't need that kind of crap. He was spinning to join the wing-formation the others were forming when he caught a glint of colour where none should be -- Quantico was grey, blue Earth, white Moon, yellow Sun -- so what was the red off the wing's rear inside quadrant?

"You see that?" he whispered to Myles, inching the ship around again. He pointed to the little speck of red.

Which was suddenly a great big speck of red.

"Wing alert, incoming," Lo snapped smartly, loud enough to drown out the chatter on the comm, and then wheeled the ship completely. "Visuals on hostile."

"Quit fucking around, Boeshane," someone said, but Lo was already pushing the ship forward, making Myles curse and work twice as fast to keep them stable. He swung sharply when he saw a power charge, and barely missed getting winged by hostile fire. Behind him, something exploded.

A calm little rational portion of his brain was telling him that they were still in sim, that this was a test, but the vast majority had no thoughts at all. Adrenaline pumped into him when he dodged another projectile and heard Myles mark out the speed as it whipped past. He reached automatically for the light-carrier release, corrected when he found it in a different location, and thumbed the tracking on. A check of the wing showed all but two ships turning to follow; one was crippled, floating uselessly back towards the bay, and another was a burned out hulk. Down by two; a single-dodge formation would be best, but these were Cadets and he wasn't sure any of them even knew what a single-dodge was. Still, he'd work with what he had. He began firing left-handed at the same time he started keying in coordinate codes with his right hand; after a second, Myles caught on and slapped his hand out of the way, entering them herself.

"Come on kids, I'm not jerking off up here," he said, and heard a few shocked gasps. "Thumbs out of your asses!"

He got three square shots off right into the jaws of whatever-the-hell it was before the wing caught on; behind him, ships dodged in and out of the spare protection he was providing, flash after flash on the light-carrier gatlings streaking past him. Whatever the intruder was, it was taking a beating. If he could get under it --

Then the scroll screen went dark, sharp and sudden, and the gravity feed crapped out and the yoke snapped back into place.

Right.

Simulation.

Oh, shit.

Myles was breathing hard in the seat next to him. Lo felt his own pulse racing and made a concerted effort to calm it. The only time your screen went black in space was when you were truly and utterly screwed.

He popped the door, just to be sure he really was still in the bay, and the comforting smell of hot metal washed over him. Myles undid her harness and staggered out of the ship.

Cullen was standing just outside his door.

"Two strips," she said sharply. "Language unbecoming an officer."

Strips. Punishment; he'd had three strips from Kraf, and he'd worked them off with the press-ups.

"Yes, sir," he said, stepping out and standing to attention.

"Report to Sergeant on the dinner hour."

"Yessir."

She was furious, he could see that, but he couldn't work out why. Yeah, he'd been a little foul, but an Admiral must know that was just pilot talk, and it wasn't like even the Senior Cadets never swore.

"This is meant," she said loudly, as the other students joined them in a huddle around Lo's ship, "to be an exercise in _evasive maneuvers._ If any one of you ever thumbs on your gatlings without direct authorisation again, you will be expelled. Do I make myself clear?"

Lo looked at her, well and truly puzzled now. The whole point of Fleet training was to make soldiers. Soldiers fought. Pilots fought with their gatlings. He'd been running a gatling since his voice broke. Surely the others had been given gatling training, if they were being allowed to apply for flight clearance.

"Fortunately I believe we pulled enough data from Boeshane's little stunt to evaluate your flight-readiness," Cullen continued. "You'll be notified of your scores as soon as they're calculated. You are dismissed. I suggest you study your _evasive_ tactics," she said, and walked off.

"Nice work, Boeshane," one of the Senior Cadets said, smacking him on the back of the head as the crowd began to disperse. Some of the others were grumbling, and some looked depressed -- he guessed those were the ones in the burned or crippled ships. But one or two were twitchy, balancing on the balls of their feet or clenching and unclenching their fingers.

They'd enjoyed it. He could tell. That was the way half the 43rd looked when the pilots came in after a good run. High as birds and thrilled to still be alive.

"What'd I do?" he asked Myles in an undertone, as they followed the rest of the class out of the bay.

"You're thick," she told him. "Cullen put that in there to test our evasion. It's supposed to show how we respond to danger."

"So?" Lo asked. "Why was she so angry?"

"Because nobody goes after a ship eight times their size, gatlings blazing, not during a sim and definitely not on a clearance flight," she replied. "Not as fast as you did, anyhow. She just wanted our response."

"I was taught when someone shoots at you to respond by shooting back," Lo pointed out. Myles smacked him in the back of the head too.

"That's not why we're here," Myles said.

"What the hell, then why are we?" he demanded, stopping in the corridor. She turned to face him.

"This is _officer_ training," she said, a little impatiently. "Officers command, they don't fight. When you have ten thousand troops taking orders you can't just plunge forward and get yourself killed. We're the brains of the operation, Boeshane."

"Then they shouldn't put us in single-man ships -- "

"We weren't there to fight. We were there to learn how to fly."

"It's a cheap trick," Lo insisted.

"It might be, but that's what the Admiral wanted, and you messed it up. If you want to be a wing-head gatling boy, you shouldn't have come to Quantico."

"What's so great about not being able to shoot things?" he called after her as she walked off. She threw an obscene gesture his way and continued on. He clenched both fists, furious, and then consciously released his hands.

Well, he wasn't going to be an officer. He was going to graduate and Levy had promised him a placement with the Time Agency if he did well. Screw commanding ten thousand troops; he was going to have _time_ at his command and if that was the case he was damn well going to shoot at things if they shot first.

***

Ianto, unaware of the minor adolescent drama playing out in the station that day, was having a much quieter time of things. Now that classes had settled down, there weren't as many students in the library. There were still busy times, but even the Skins were figuring out how to work the database, and his afternoons consisted mostly of keeping the students from scuffling with each other near the books, or helping a lost scholar find what they were looking for. By the time the library was closing, just shy of the evening meal, there were only three Twos and a Senior Cadet to shoo out the door.

"Come on, Haverson," he said, jostling the chair of the Senior Cadet as the Twos hurried off to mess for dinner. "Library's closing."

"I know, I know," Haverson replied, tipping forward in the chair and rising out of it, packing his porterminal away in the long uniform pocket on his hip. "You know I love learning," he said.

"I know you love reading adventure novels," Ianto answered. Haverson looked startled. "Full access to all download records. Don't worry; who am I going to tell?"

"Nobody, I hope," Haverson said frankly, turning to face him. "I've been here three years. I want to be out there," he added, tipping his head in -- well, the direction of the library doors, but beyond that if you looked in any direction you were looking at the stars. Ianto could appreciate the sentiment. "Reading about it keeps me on track, you know?"

"There are worse vices to have," Ianto said, reaching out to take his arm and gently steer him towards the door. Haverson, however, stood his ground; he twisted a little and Ianto found he was suddenly in the Senior Cadet's personal space.

Haverson was almost as tall as he was. He had bright green eyes under his short brown hair, and like everyone in this damn century his teeth were perfect. He was grinning at Ianto with all of them visible.

"Are you really from the twenty-first century?" Haverson asked.

"Yep," Ianto answered, and tried again to coax him towards the door. Haverson didn't budge.

"Is it true they had rules about who you could have sex with?" he asked.

Ianto sighed. "In some countries, yes. In others there were cultural taboos, religious issues...I'll find you a book on it."

"Bet you've never done this, then," Haverson said, and his hand whipped out and caught Ianto by the back of the neck as he kissed him.

Ianto stumbled backwards, dragging Haverson along with him, and fetched up hard against the library counter. Haverson planted himself firmly, a thigh between Ianto's legs, and kissed him again. For just a second, Ianto considered accepting the kiss. His mouth was halfway open before he got his hands on Haverson's chest and pushed. The boy staggered back, surprised, and they stared at each other for a few seconds. 

"I didn't mean to scare you," Haverson said. "I like you."

"I'm not scared," Ianto replied, catching his breath.

"Don't you like me?"

"Haverson -- " Ianto rolled his eyes. "Does that line work?"

There was the hint of an unrepentant, cheeky grin around the boy's mouth. "Sometimes."

"I have a boyfriend," Ianto said.

"So?" Haverson frowned. "Is he clingy?"

"He's three thousand years away. You're not showing me anything I didn't already know," Ianto said. "Besides, how old are you? Nineteen?"

"Almost twenty-one," Haverson said indignantly. "You're not that much older."

"Old enough. That might be quaint and twenty-first century to you," Ianto added, before Haverson could reply, "but I don't sleep with students."

Haverson took a step closer. Ianto straightened slightly.

"I just thought you might like it," Haverson said. "You haven't slept with anyone on the station."

"And how do you know that?"

"Nobody keeps secrets here long," Haverson told him. "I thought maybe you were shy. It's okay if you are, you know."

"I am not -- " Ianto controlled himself, because he was starting to see the funny side of this, the really hilarious side of a kid like Haverson telling him it was okay to be shy, when a month ago he and Jack had been having frantic, slightly uncomfortable sex in the shelter of a cliff face on a deserted (but still public) Cardiff beach.

"I'm not shy," he told Haverson. "I'm just not interested."

The hurt on Haverson's face was a little more genuine this time. "Not interested in me?"

"Not interested in anyone."

"You should see a doctor about that," Haverson told him. "Anyway, sorry to bug you. See you tomorrow?" he added with a smile, and then he was out the door, as cheerful as if he hadn't just been rejected out-of-hand.

Ianto leaned back on the library counter again and adjusted himself slightly. Haverson's advances hadn't been entirely without effect. Maybe sleeping with a student was fine in the fifty-first, but it still didn't sit right with him.

And anyway he'd promised Blithe she'd be at the top of the list, when and if he decided that the annoyance of not getting laid for months on end outweighed the wisdom of not getting too attached to anyone.

***

Lo was still annoyed with Myles, with the Admiral, and with the universe in general by the time dinner had passed and he'd worked off his two strips (recalibrating cleaning units; tricky, sticky, oily work). Word had got round, especially among the Senior Cadets, and every time one of them passed him they smacked him on the back of the head. It didn't hurt -- it hardly even injured his pride -- but it was annoying, and he felt it was undeserved. Punishment for nonconformity was a military standard, but nobody tried to trick you into bucking the system out there in the real universe.

He opened the door to his room, hoping to toss his porterminal on the desk and have a few minutes of quiet to come down from the day. Instead, however, he found that while his booby-trap chair was still sitting in the middle of the room, it was occupied.

"I'm going to manually install a lock on my door," he said.

There was a Skin sitting in the chair, a pretty woman about his own age, hands clasped in her lap. She smiled at him.

"One of the Senior Cadets sent me," she said, and stood up. Lo didn't move as she came to attention in front of him, almost nose-to-nose, and then reached around behind his head and smacked the back of it.

It was a deep affront, to be smacked by a Skin; much more of an insult than having a Senior Cadet do it. He could grasp that. This was a private insult meant to cap off a very bad day, and in some way it worked. If nothing else, it was a thorough reminder of the immaturity of his peers.

But there was a hint of fear in the woman's eyes, as if she thought he might shoot the messenger, and anyway what did it matter? The Senior Cadets didn't choose who passed or failed a class, and they couldn't stop him from getting his flight clearance. Cullen might not like it, but she wouldn't fail his clearance because he reacted in combat.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Skin Debra," she said, attaching the rank to it out of obviously hard-learned training.

"Thank you, Debra," he said with a sigh, and stepped aside. "You can go."

She turned, tracking him. "Really?"

"Look, I could think up something smartass for you to tell them, or I could do something mortifying to you, but I just want to get the grease off my hands and go to bed, okay?" he said, trying to get out of his clothing without getting too much filth on them. "Consider it your lucky day."

He glanced up to find Debra looking not at him, but at the shower in the other room.

"I guess you'll take a bath," she said enviously. Lo blinked at her.

"Shower's faster," he said.

"If I had a bathtub I'd take one every day," she told him.

"Well, wait two years and you can have this one. I'm not using it."

"Why not?" she asked, and came forward to pull his hands away from his clothes, undoing his collar herself so that he wouldn't get it dirty.

"We didn't have them, where I grew up," he explained.

"Really?" she asked, setting the collar aside and stepping back.

"I lived on the coast of my planet. If you wanted a bath you went down to the water. Bathtub water doesn't move. It's weird," he told her, and then relented when her eyes widened in surprise. "I don't know how to use it."

"I could do it for you," Debra said, walking into the bathroom and messing with the spigot. "I grew up on a luxury station. My father was security captain. I miss it."

"I bet," he agreed. When she bent over to turn on the water, the shapeless drab uniform tightened delightfully. She looked over her shoulder and grinned.

"Come on," she said. "It'll soak the dirt off."

Lo pulled his boots off -- they'd definitely need to be shined before Kraf saw him again -- and undid the rest of his clothing, walking naked into the bathroom. He was a little conscious of the seam-marks where the nuskin met real skin, but those were hardly visible even in good light.

"Well," Debra remarked, apparently more at ease with Cadets when they were out of uniform. "They don't grow them modest on Boeshane, do they?"

"Never saw much point in it," he replied over the gurgle of the water filling the tub. It looked suspiciously clear. Well, logically water was clear, but bathing water on Boeshane had always been bright blue. "Do they grow them modest on luxury stations?"

She looked startled. "What?"

"I'm not getting into that deathtrap alone," he said, and flicked a bit of water at her. She laughed, raising her hands to defend herself. "It's nothing I haven't seen already."

"I used to wonder why you watched us run," she told him, arching an eyebrow.

"It's the bouncing," he answered. He cautiously lowered his arm into the rippling water, studying his hand through it. "Well, my skin hasn't melted off."

Debra seemed like a very keen, flexible-minded young woman. She shed her boots and the one-piece Skin uniform quickly. Once out of it, she didn't seem especially modest either. She turned off the water, put her hands on her hips, and tilted her head at the tub.

"Dare you," she said.

Lo would not admit to being as concerned about this whole situation as he was. Surely the water would wash away the dirt and then just be, well, dirty water. With no tide to carry the dirt away, it seemed a little unsanitary.

Still, nothing ventured. He cautiously stepped into the water and lowered himself down.

Oh. _Oh._

"Oh, wow," he said, closing his eyes and blissfully sinking down into the water up to his neck. It was warm, verging on hot, and the tension coiled between his shoulders unwound almost immediately. "This is _great_."

"No fear of death?" Debra asked.

"No fear," he said, and opened his eyes. She was still standing there, watching him. "Well? Coming in?"

She bit her lip. "I could get in trouble."

"Ohhh this is worth it," he said, playing up the pleasure of the bath a little bit. There was a splash and a ripple of water against his chest, and Debra lowered herself into the bath opposite him. She looked, if anything, even more ecstatic than he was. 

"Thank you," she said, reaching for the soap sitting on the ledge. "I've really missed this."

"Shhh, I'm disintegrating," he replied, closing his eyes again. There were vague splashy sounds from the other end of the bathtub for a while. When he opened one eye, just to make sure she wasn't drowning, he saw she was washing her face, splashing water onto it to rinse away the suds.

"Can I?" he asked, lifting a hand out of the water and gesturing at her shaved head. She nodded and leaned forward so he could touch it.

"Takes some getting used to," she said. He rubbed a thumb across the crown of her head, curious, then down along her temple, her jaw, up to her lower lip.

"I have had a really terrible day," he said seriously. "And this has made it so. Much. Better. Can I say thank-you?"

"You let me use your bath -- " she started, then stopped when he pressed lightly with his thumb.

"I'd like to say thank-you," he said. "I won't if you don't want me to."

She watched him for a while, the steam from the hot water still rising around them, then licked his thumb, playfully.

"You may," she replied, looking haughty and amused, and he leaned in, slip-sliding a little, and kissed her.

Boeshane, like all colony planets, had an individual slang, a community version of the standard spoken throughout the galaxy, and Boeshane had a word for this: santete. It was difficult to define in plain standard, because plain standard made it sound like a sort of business transaction, but it meant the giving of pleasure out of gratitude, the whole thing suffused over with joy.

Lo's mother had once had santete with the doctor who saved Gray from a fever when they were little children; when she'd come home, glowing with delight and satisfaction, his father had beamed and danced her around the room, and when Lo was a little older they'd told him the story to explain the word. Mother had been so overcome with joy that she'd gone to see the doctor and spent the evening with her, and father had been proud and pleased that the doctor had made Lo's mother happy, and his mother had returned the favour.

Lo had only once done it himself, for a woman who was from another place and only passing through the 43rd on her way to a posting outside of the Boe system. She'd covered him when a Flyer ship crippled his own, dragged his ship out of the fray, and escorted him home. He'd cleaned himself up and gone to where she was working on her ship in the bay, doing a few minor repairs. He'd offered himself to her, delightedly, wonderingly, knowing it was santete and unable to explain it at all. She probably thought he was just some kid who was relieved not to be dead, but Lo had meant it as santete, and it had made home seem closer, somehow.

Santete didn't have to be a matter of life and death. It could just be pleasure at being drawn a bath for the first time.

They were both slippery from the soap and water, but Debra got her hands on his shoulders and slid forward, sending waves up against the sides of the tub. He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her in, steadying her against his body. She looped both arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, then nipped on his earlobe. She settled herself in his lap, facing him.

"This is a very good use of a bathtub," she said against his damp skin. He let go of her waist and brought his hand up to stroke his fingers between her breasts, following the line of her collarbone over and back down, cupping the breast, thumb brushing her nipple. She made a soft, appreciative noise.

"Relaxing," he agreed. His other hand splayed across her thigh, under the water. She squealed and wriggled against him when he spread her open gently, then relaxed as his fingers brushed inside her, movement slowed slightly by the water. When he found her clit, she moaned against his neck.

"I love that," he said, sliding his fingers in small circles, his other hand still stroking her breast. "No better sound in the universe."

"Glad I can oblige," she replied. Her hips jerked a little, and another wave of water splashed against the tub. "Oh -- there -- "

He hummed agreement, moving a little faster, pleased with the way she rocked against his hand, the increasing sound of her moans muffled a little by his skin. She was pleased -- better than pleased, and then lost in it, and he was too, and when she came with a sharp buck of her hips she bit his skin, groaned one last time and settled her face in the crook of his neck.

They floated there for a few minutes, until eventually she let go of his shoulders and sat back a little.

"I should -- " she began, sliding a hand down his chest, but he caught it and shook his head.

"That was thank-you," he told her again.

"Are you sure?" she asked. He nodded.

"Anyway, you should go -- before you're missed," he said. Debra used his chest to push herself up, rising dripping from the bath. She stepped out of it and dried herself with his towel, smiling when she caught him watching.

"Enjoy your bath," she said, pulling on her clothing. He slid down another few inches, until all but his face was submerged.

"I plan to," he told her. "And Debra -- "

"Hm?" she was already in the doorway to the room, but she turned back to look at him.

"You can use my bath whether I'm in it or not," he said. "Just don't get caught."

A pleased smile lit her face. She was extraordinarily pretty. He'd never really appreciated the shapes of peoples' heads before he'd lived with a few hundred bald students.

"I'll do that," she said, and walked purposefully out of his room.

He messed around in the bathtub for another few minutes, washing himself with the soap and splashing water everywhere, until his fingers were wrinkly and the water began to cool. He didn't even really feel like a wank; Debra had been arousing, but he'd been happy just to please her. He could have a wank anytime.

Oh, he could have a _bath_ anytime. He had a bathtub, and now he had a reasonable working knowledge of how such a thing functioned.

As he dried himself off and found a pair of pyjamas, he planned out many, many future baths. Perhaps even some with Debra. He liked Debra. She seemed like she liked him, too.

That, really, was where everything started to go to hell for Lo Boeshane.


	4. Chapter 4

Once he felt like he'd found his feet with the students, Ianto tried being more...well, sociable seemed to have such loaded meaning in this particular day and age, but he got out more than he had when he'd first come to the station. He ate at least a few meals a week in the mess, usually sitting with some of the faculty members, apart from the hundreds of Skins and Twos who had to eat there and the upperclassmen who chose to.

He often sat with Kraf, the five-legged, be-eyestalked alien who was the only non-human on the station, or at least the only visibly non-human person. The other faculty, bewilderingly, were more wary of Kraf, who was of their time and training, than they were of Ianto, whose experience was far stranger to them.

"It's cultural," Kraf said, when Ianto asked. He looked annoyed, but Kraf always looked vaguely annoyed -- something to do with the shape of his face, Ianto thought.

"That's hardly an excuse," Ianto pointed out.

"Perhaps, but I don't blame them. Well, I do blame them, but one understands. Humans -- pardon the generalisation -- are like children who got bullied on the first day of school. Everyone who looks like a bully is suspect. My people are mainly peaceful, but humanity hasn't had a good first impression of the Other."

Ianto thought about his own first impressions of the Other. He had to admit Kraf might have a point. Between Cybermen, Daleks, and the bloody Doctor, he didn't have very good context himself.

On the other hand, here he sat, sharing his Brrvida with the alien. (Brrvida was some kind of protein. He'd decided not to ask any further. It was delicious, and he didn't want to know what went into making it.)

Kraf seemed to sense his hesitation. Maybe Kraf was psychic. It had been known to happen.

"Yes, you do seem to be an outlier among them," he said. "Less context, perhaps?"

"Actually, I met quite a few aliens in my last job," Ianto said. "Most of them wanted to kill me."

Kraf grunted. "You're disproving my theory, then? That's annoying."

"Well, most people didn't know aliens existed. So most people didn't spend their time saying I had to be afraid of them. I think it's a good theory. As good as any."

One of Kraf's eyestalks extended slightly, studying him. "You must have had a rather unique position, before coming here, if you were aware of non-human races so early."

Ianto shrugged. "I worked in research and defence."

Kraf blinked. Well, winked, but when you had independent eyeballs, it was a similar sort of gesture. "You -- didn't work for the Torchwood Archive, did you?"

Ianto paused. "The what?"

"The Torchwood Archive? They were founded around your time, if I'm remembering Earth history properly. They have an outpost near my home planet. Lots of scientists. Research and Defence is their motto. Which I find a little offensive, but they know we could blow them up if they looked at us wrong, so it's all one."

"Torchwood still exists?" Ianto asked. Jack had not mentioned this.

"So you did work there?"

"Well, it wasn't called the Torchwood Archive when I worked there," Ianto said. "It was just Torchwood. I can't believe -- three thousand years and it still exists? How did I not hear about this?"

"They keep it quiet. Torchwood does not publish. Famous saying. By a Director Jones, as I recall, sometime last century. Maybe a relative of yours. Did you spawn before you came here?"

"What -- no!" Ianto said, then thought about it. "Well. Not that I know of. There are a lot of Joneses. Excuse me," he added, standing and setting down his spork (sporks: the cutlery of The Future!). "I need to go."

"Suit yourself," Kraf replied, pulling over the remaining tray of Brrvida. "See you tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow," Ianto said distractedly. He was already planning a research approach, mentally compiling all the databases that might contain information on the Torchwood Archive and its history.

He was halfway to the library before his thoughts were interrupted by noise: the sound of shouts and catcalls, echoing down the hall from one of the communal bathrooms. Students at play, no doubt, except that some of the shouting sounded a bit more frantic, almost panicked --

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of someone in pain, a quick yelp hurriedly hushed, and he broke into a run.

When he reached the doorway, he found a scuffle going on. At first it looked like a three-way battle between two large Cadets, three Senior Cadets, and one naked prisoner. As he watched, however, everyone in clothing seemed to coalesce into a single side, most of them holding the limbs of the naked boy, trying to restrain him. The boy was thrashing against them and doing a fairly good job of trying to escape, but one of the Senior Cadets had a knife.

No, not a knife -- a straight razor, of all the bizarre things to find on a space station in the 51st century.

"What the hell is going on here?" he demanded. Everyone, including the naked boy, froze.

"Just a bit of fun, sir," said the Senior Cadet with the razor. She gave him an insolent look that clearly said she didn't think much of a librarian interrupting their fun. Ianto wished for his sidearm. "Teaching one of our boys his place."

Ianto looked at the boy, whose eyes were rolling in fear. There was blood running down his temple where apparently he hadn't taken kindly to the idea of a shave.

"Funny, you don't look like a teacher," Ianto said. The woman with the razor narrowed her eyes.

"He slept with my girlfriend," she said.

"And here I thought this century was enlightened about that kind of thing," Ianto retorted. "Out, all of you, now. Let him go."

The others looked to the Senior Cadet with the blade.

"I gave the order, not her," Ianto said sharply. "Let him go or I'll make sure you get the strips you deserve for this."

The woman snapped the blade into its casing sharply. Ianto stepped into the bathroom and jerked his head at the door. Almost everyone bolted, except for her and the naked boy. She sauntered out, giving him one last look as she went. Ianto stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"The razor," he said. She snorted and dropped it into his outstretched hand, and he let her leave.

The boy they'd been about to -- shave, or castrate, or something -- was picking himself up off the tiled floor, studying the cut on his face in the mirror. With a clearer view, Ianto could see he was one of the library regulars, the tense boy, the Ghost.

"Thanks," the Ghost said, glancing at him in the mirror.

"Anytime," Ianto replied. "Have you got any clothing?"

The Ghost gestured at a crumpled pile in the corner. Ianto picked up the shirt; it'd been sliced off him.

Classy all the way, these Fleet cadets.

"Well, it's better than nothing. You'll want that looked at," he said, offering the boy his trousers back.

"It's fine," the boy said, tucking the trousers under his arm.

"It's really not," Ianto replied. "Put them on. You're going to Medbay or I'll give you strips as well."

The boy smiled a little as he pulled the trousers over his hips. The flies had been cut away, but he held them up with one hand easily. "You can't give strips."

"I have influential connections," Ianto informed him. "I'll say you were shouting in the library."

The boy's smile turned into an open, engaging grin. "Maybe they'll shave my head as punishment."

Ianto offered him the ruined shirt. "Come along."

They didn't encounter anyone else on the silent walk to the Medbay; everyone was at dinner or studying, which presumably was why the others had chosen this moment to torment the Ghost. When they arrived, the desk nurse deeply over-reacted, at least Ianto thought so; the boy's eyeroll when he was marched to a chair and immediately squirted with disinfectant and skin bond seemed to indicate he agreed.

"So," Ianto said, sitting with the boy as he held the bond-adhesive to the wound and waited for it to dry, "apparently some people take infidelity very seriously in this century. Was she worth it?"

"I didn't know she had a girlfriend," the boy complained. "It's not like _she's_ in any trouble."

"Oh, I reckon she's in plenty," Ianto replied. "That's why I took the razor."

"Some people are crazy and clingy," the boy said. He offered his hand. "Cadet Lo Boeshane."

"Librarian Ianto Jones," Ianto replied, shaking his hand. "You'd better tell me everything."

"Why?" Boeshane asked. Ianto considered this. He didn't actually have a reason, other than the somewhat tautological _Because someone ought to be told_.

"Nosiness," he tried. Boeshane nodded.

"Okay," he said. "I did something stupid and Senior Cadet sent her Skin girlfriend to mock me. We ended up having sex in a bath. Word got around to Senior Cadet, who's been after me for two weeks. She said if I fuck Skins I should look like one since I'm not a _real_ Cadet anyway, which I think is stupid because she's the one who's all crazy over a Skin, and anyway they grabbed me and were going to shave my head. Which is the last thing I need these days, lemme tell you."

"I can imagine," Ianto said gravely. He did look young to be a Cadet; it was the first thing that had drawn Ianto's attention to him.

"Also it wasn't like that anyway," Boeshane said. "I just did something nice for her because she was nice to me. It was only once."

He looked like the shock of what had happened to him was finally settling in, but he was managing it with a rather eerie calm.

"So she sent someone to make fun of you, and you had sex with her girlfriend. I think you win," Ianto said. Boeshane smiled, sat in silence for a little while before he turned back to Ianto.

"Can I ask you something?" he said. Ianto raised an eyebrow. "What happened to your face?"

"I was shot," Ianto replied.

Boeshane seemed to be waiting for something. Finally, he grinned again -- that same charming, brilliant smile.

"You're shorter on words than me," he pointed out.

"Do I get a prize?" Ianto asked.

"My good gracious," someone said, and Ianto looked up to see the Chaplain of the station standing in front of them in one of his horrible Hawaiian shirts. "Mr. Jones, tell me you didn't get into a fight with a Cadet."

"No," Ianto said. Boeshane gave him an imploring look. "Found him in the shower. Looks like he fell and cut himself."

The Chaplain looked deeply unconvinced. "Lo?"

Boeshane tested the bond-adhesive, then let go of his face. "You remember I told you about Debra?"

The Chaplain nodded.

"Her girlfriend found out."

Ianto watched as the man sighed. He looked like he was used to dealing with Boeshane's antics; perhaps this wasn't the first time the boy had caught trouble. Then the Chaplain looked at Ianto pointedly.

"Innocent bystander," Ianto said, raising his hands.

"Neither of you will tell me what happened, will you?" the Chaplain asked.

"Not my place," Ianto said. Boeshane looked sullen.

"Are you in danger, Lo?" the Chaplain asked. "This girlfriend, I don't suppose she's satisfied?"

"I'll work around it," Boeshane told him. "If they hadn't jumped me all at once I'd have been fine. She'll forget about it. Probably. I'm used to watching my back."

"You should make a report," the Chaplain insisted. "I know, I know, it's not fair play to tattle, but this looks like assault to me. An inquiry could get them reprimanded, maybe expelled."

"Great," Boeshane muttered. " _That's_ what I need."

"Does this Debra -- does she know?" Ianto asked. Boeshane frowned.

"Don't think so," he said. "It's the first time they tried anything."

"Well, instead of watching your back, you might consider telling her," Ianto suggested. The other men looked at him like he was insane. "Clearly she has some influence with this Senior Cadet."

There was a long silence, and then Boeshane laughed -- a startling noise, sudden and sharp, but with real pleasure behind it.

"I'd like to see that," he said, mouth wide in a grin. "Skin Debra taking the hide off her Senior Cadet. That's a genius idea. Sir," he added belatedly.

"It shows a certain amount of lateral thinking," the Chaplain allowed.

"You don't need to call me Sir," Ianto told Boeshane.

"Look, even Chaplain approves," Boeshane said, ignoring him, standing and making for the doorway. "Listen, the skin-bond's dry, I'm going to go find some new clothes. And pay a call to the barracks. Thanks, sir!" he called back over his shoulder, to Ianto. Ianto stood up, straightening his collar.

"That one," the Chaplain said. "He's going to be trouble if he ever starts thinking like you do."

"Efficient solutions a specialty," Ianto said.

"That's the first time I think he's laughed since he came on board," the Chaplain continued. "First time I've seen him, anyway, and I've been keeping an eye on him. You know he's a war veteran?"

"I'd heard," Ianto replied. "He seems friendly enough with his classmates."

"Yes, well. Boeshane becomes what others want to see," the Chaplain said. "Or at least what he thinks others want to see."

Ianto looked thoughtfully at the door. "Yes, I know that feeling," he remarked quietly.

***

When Lo told Debra what had happened, and showed her the slice on his face, her lips thinned into a firm, narrow line.

"I knew she was trouble," she said. "She's not like you, she was raised on Earth."

"What does Earth have to do with anything?" he asked, leaning against the corridor wall outside the barracks.

"Things are different down there -- all around here, really," Debra said. "It's not like in the colonies and on the stations -- well, maybe parts are, but there are a lot of conservatives down there. People left Earth for a reason. She's very...monogamous."

"Monowhat?" Lo asked. Debra looked at him, then laughed. He smiled.

"I'll handle her," Debra said. "Thanks for telling me. She won't bother you again."

"I appreciate it. Sorry to cause you trouble."

Debra shook her head. "I'm not going to blame you too. You should scram before someone sees you malingering with the Skins."

"Scramming," Lo agreed, while Debra went back inside, presumably to prepare to rip her girlfriend -- probably her _ex_ -girlfriend -- a new one. He walked back to his quarters and settled down on the bed to study, but his mind drifted.

That was two strikes against him with the Senior Cadets. First his stunt with the flight sim, which would have died down pretty quickly, though he wasn't about to tell anyone he passed his clearance with a perfect score. Then the mess with Debra, which had meant a gang of senior students gunning for him for at least ten days before he let his guard down and they almost shaved his head. If the librarian hadn't come along when he did...

But he had, and Lo was grateful. He wasn't in the business of being saved, but he didn't mind being rescued by a cute civ with a surprisingly commanding tone of voice. He ought to go by the library tomorrow and say thank-you in a more complete way. That was only good manners.

Not santete, though. He'd heard scuttlebutt that Jones was celibate, or at any rate didn't care to accept when one of the Senior Cadets tried it with him. Something about pining for a boyfriend back in his home time. Besides, Lo was newly cautious of santete with strangers. He didn't really have anything to offer; Jones had free range of data, access to all the ship's entertainment files, and anyway he wouldn't know where to start. His credit was only good at the Quantico shop. He wasn't a very good cook...

For lack of anything better to do, he searched out the Wik entry on the twenty-first century, skimming the text for something interesting. The images were more entertaining than the text: people in strange clothing, odd ballistic weaponry, _bizarre_ food. His eyes lighted on some kind of primitive craft, and he paused. Not a car, not by his definition of the word, and not a spaceship. Sleek, though, and apparently very common in the twenty-first. Four wheels, internal-combustion engine, limited terrain capabilities, and the thing must have been a monster to pilot. Manual _everything_. Still, there was something appealing about it. Better yet, they made toys of it, just like the toy spacecraft they used to put inside Kanteregg sweets when he was a child.

He didn't have the capability to buy one, and authentic antiques were far, far out of his price range on the market, but he'd be willing to bet someone would know how to get their hands on one.

Mind made up, he stepped out into the corridor and nipped down to Myles' room. She was doing some kind of stretching exercise when he knocked on the open door. She collapsed in a heap and grinned up at him from the floor.

"Need something?" she asked. "Don't tell me you want to go over the flight plan for tomorrow."

"Memorised it," he said, waving it aside. "Myles, I need a favour."

After listening to his (very condensed) story, she gave him the information he needed. He crossed through the station to the industrial sector, found a fabrication classroom half-full of Twos working overtime for their engineering electives, and asked around until he found a young woman whose eyes lit up at his proposition. He bartered her down to eight bottles of too-sweet drinks from the station shop plus half his private data stash on the server, gave her a good-faith payment of a tin of shoe polish on the spot, and left her to her work, a spring in his step as he returned to his own room.

The following afternoon, once his flight class was finished and he'd had a bath (glorious baths; he was always sweaty after flight) he walked into the library and directly up to the big central desk where the librarian was assisting a pair of his classmates. He waited, impatient, until they were done and then pushed past them up to the counter.

"Hello again," Mr. Jones said with a smile. "Sort everything out?"

"Remains to be seen," Lo told him loftily. "Nobody bugged me today."

"Your shaving cut looks better," the librarian observed.

"Makes me look rakish," Lo said. And then, unable to contain his glee, "I brought you something."

"Brought me something?" Mr. Jones asked.

"Yup." With flair, Lo took the databox out of his pocket and placed it on the counter. It was small, about the size of his thumbnail, with silver wires and glass beads adorning the outside. Mr. Jones looked at it, confused.

"It's a pretty little thing," he said, bending down to study it. He looked up at Lo. "What is it?"

Lo stared at him. "Turn it on."

"I haven't a clue how," Mr. Jones said, prodding it with a finger. Lo realised, belatedly, that he probably hadn't encountered a databox before.

"It's a toy," he said, feeling foolish. "Push the little button."

"This one?" Mr. Jones asked, pointing to the switch on the side. Lo nodded encouragingly. Mr. Jones looked slightly anxious, like he was worried it would explode, but he nudged the button with his fingertip.

Immediately the tac-holo flickered to life. The box disappeared, replaced by a tactile projection -- visually stunning, solid to the touch. The Two he'd paid to make it had done excellent work, down to the details on the wheels. Mr. Jones's mouth opened in surprise.

"Is it the right century?" Lo asked, as Jones reached out to touch it. The tac-projector would ensure it felt as real as any toy would; he seemed startled when he made contact, then rolled it back and forth with a finger. "I wasn't sure."

"It's a twentieth-century car," Mr. Jones murmured.

"Oh," Lo said, disappointed. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Mr. Jones replied, and Lo realised he'd been speaking softly out of -- wonder, perhaps. Not dismay, anyway. "This is James Bond's car."

"Whose?" Lo asked.

"An Aston Martin DB III," Mr. Jones said. He picked it up carefully and spun one of the wheels around. "It's the car James Bond drove in _Goldfinger_."

"That's good?"

"It's a beautiful car," Mr. Jones said. 

"Was Goldfinger a country?" Lo asked. Mr. Jones narrowed his eyes slightly.

"You're going to fail history," he said.

"Am not."

"Goldfinger was a book. Popular literature. James Bond was the hero. He drove a flash car like this," Mr. Jones informed him, setting it down and making it roll gently along the desk. "Thank you. How did you find this?"

"Wik," Lo said. "And I paid someone to make the databox. If you want to switch it off just poke this part -- " he was about to turn it over and flick the off-switch on the underside, but Mr. Jones pulled the little toy away from him possessively. Lo grinned. "Or not. It runs on a kinetic battery. Just shake it a little to recharge."

"Thank you, Boeshane," Mr. Jones said. "You didn't have to. It's my job to keep students from killing each other."

"I wanted to," Lo said. "You must miss home."

"Don't we all," Mr. Jones said, still playing with the car, moving it from hand to hand. "So you looked up my century, did you?"

"Yep. The clothes were weird," Lo said. "And they had these old weapons, like, explosive things you held in your hand. Really dangerous stuff. Light-carrier guns are much cleaner. Sonic are best, but they're illegal this close to the home planet."

"We worked with what we had," Mr. Jones said.

"Did you ever see one?"

"I owned four."

"No, not really?" Lo asked, fascinated. "Four? Why did you need four?"

"Regular, backup, small calibre, and spare," Mr. Jones said.

"How did you keep from blowing your own hand off?"

"Frequent cleaning and extensive training," Jones said, and his pretty blue eyes dimmed for a moment. Then he looked back down at the car and a smile broke over his face again.

"Did you drive one of these ever?" Lo said, pointing to the car.

"Not this one, but a sort, yes," Mr. Jones said, and set his porterminal down on the counter, calling up the image library. "Here, this one," he said, spinning it so that Lo could see. A big black thing, not nearly as slick as the toy on the counter. It did look powerful, though. Like it could take on most of what got in its way.

"It looks like you'd need three hands," Lo said.

"It's a matter of habit. You couldn't pay me to try out one of your space-ships," Mr. Jones told him.

"Do you miss it?" Lo asked. Mr. Jones glanced away. "You miss your boyfriend?" That earned him a sharp look, but he just shrugged. "Word gets around."

"Word or not, that's nobody's business," Mr. Jones said, clearing the image off his porterminal. A datafile popped up, and Lo caught a glimpse of it as Mr. Jones stashed it carefully.

"What're you working on?" he asked.

"Nothing," Mr. Jones said. "Research. A private project."

"The Torchwood Archive," Lo whispered. "You shouldn't mess with them."

"You know about them?" Mr. Jones asked. "What've you heard?"

"Nothing," Lo said. He didn't dare tell him -- hadn't even told Admiral Levy -- about the Torchwood Archivist who had visited him on the trip to Earth. He'd been an eerie pale-haired man who'd made Lo recite everything he knew about the Flyers, noted it all down, told him he was a service to his species, and disappeared so efficiently that there weren't even any flight logs of his departure. Lo had checked. "But you should steer clear."

"I'll take that under advisement," Mr. Jones told him. Lo took it for the gentle dismissal it was, gave him a smile, and withdrew to his favourite corner. He had work to do, studying and reading and several messages in memobase to answer, but every once in a while he looked up to find Mr. Jones studying the toy car, or idly playing with it while he answered questions. And, just as the library closed for the day, he saw Mr. Jones slip it carefully into his breast-pocket before shooing everyone out to dinner.

***

Ianto ate dinner on his own that night, not feeling like company. He'd spent all day researching the Torchwood Archive and had come up with frustratingly little. The Torchwood Archive existed, and a few political bloggers had posted lists of their outposts; one of them had once posted a listing of staff, but apparently he'd been forced to pull it down by his local planetary authority. It seemed to be a large, sprawling organisation, working directly with regional law. Much like his own Torchwood, it was protected by the superior governing authorities and the Fleet, but not restricted by either one. One of its past directors had indeed been a Jones, about a hundred years ago, some kind of gentleman-adventurer of the future who had died in a territory skirmish on a colony planet (though what he was doing there, nobody could say).

Its current director was unlisted.

He was struggling to uncover what Torchwood really _did_. Research and Defence, fine, but researching what? And humanity had the Fleet to defend it. There were sixteen known alien races, two of them apparently extinct, and rumours of ten more (though Ianto knew there was a database of at least five hundred in his Torchwood's archives). Humanity was at peace -- or at least at unarmed tension -- with all but the Flyers, and the Flyers were in retreat. It wasn't like Torchwood was keeping the secrets of the galaxy. Not those secrets, anyway. They were loosely allied to the Time Agency, but there was even less information available about the Time Agency than there was about Torchwood.

For the hell of it, he'd tried logging into the Torchwood Archive Secure Servers with his old employee ID and dual passkeys. It had accepted the first passkey, which shocked him, and then rejected the second. Curiouser and curiouser.

He turned away from his porterminal, frustrated, and his eyes fell on the little Aston Martin that Lo Boeshane had brought him. The young Cadet couldn't have known about this particular car; he'd probably seen it on Wik, which detailed the popular culture of the day and might have featured Bond's cars. But Boeshane had been thoughtful enough to look up some artefact, a touchstone from Ianto's own time, and devious enough to find a way to gift it to him.

He missed Earth, his Earth, deeply. He tried not to think about it. When it was at the back of his mind it didn't hurt, but when he tried to think about it there was an ache, like the loss of a limb. Sometimes, a nameless feeling just passed over him, a yearning for an unidentifiable home, a place he felt secure. He'd felt it in Cardiff after Lisa died, lost in fathomless and unsolvable grief. It would fade, and he would go back, Jack had promised him that, but that didn't help in the here-and-now.

Ianto cleared away his dinner and undressed, throwing the clothing in the sonic washer -- incredibly convenient, he hoped one would fall through the Rift one day -- and pulled on the loose, shapeless Fleet-issue pyjamas that he'd been provided with as part of his living allowance on the station. He settled into a chair, propped his feet so that he could balance the porterminal on his knees, and accessed the entertainment database.

They had three James Bond films, but all were from well past his time. There was no classic Sean Connery at all; apparently those had been lost in the digital dark ages of the third millennium. He'd watched a documentary on the meticulous research and reconstruction that had gone into recovering "pre-millennial" media, amused by how valuable people found things like 1980's pop music, 19th century pornographic etchings, and recipes for pie crust from the middle ages. They estimated they'd got back about 80% of what had been lost; Ianto knew that it was closer to fifty, but he didn't want to spoil anyone's fun.

He messed around in twenty-first century media for a while (they did have _Sherlock Holmes_ , which he'd wanted to see at the cinema, but he'd wait until he got back, save it as a treat) before he stumbled into twentieth-century music.

Hm. They'd recovered most of Madonna, all of the Beatles and the Pogues, a ton of emo, a decent selection of classic rock -- and a huge database of early twentieth swing and jazz. Benny Goodman, Louis Armstrong, Glenn Miller, Count Basie, Earl Hines. All the music Jack loved. Showtunes, good god, Jack couldn't be parted from his showtunes. Ianto wondered if he still liked this music, or if he even remembered it existed.

He picked _Begin the Beguine_ \-- Artie Shaw, not Cole Porter -- started it playing, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Maybe he should take Blithe up on her offer, or even Haverson up on his. Sitting in the dark listening to three-thousand-year-old music that he wasn't even all that into, that couldn't be healthy. He was fairly certain Jack wouldn't care if he did take up with someone, and Jack had got him into this mess in the first place.

Human comfort would be nice; something simple, bodies together, losing oneself in another person -- something less complicated than he'd had. Blithe had made it clear that with her there were no strings attached, and Haverson had made it more than clear.

He wondered if Kraf's people had sex. Jack was always going on about sexy aliens.

Then he laughed.

"You've conditioned me, Jack," he said to the empty room. "Jazz comes up and all I can think about is shagging. Well done."

He switched off the music and pulled up a film instead: an uncomplicated action flick, one of a thousand disposable, unmemorable movies that were now considered historical documents.

He wished they had popcorn in The Future.

***

Lo realised, in the days that followed, that he was fast becoming the station's unofficial expert on their chrono-displaced librarian. It wasn't through any intent; he just stopped at the library desk whenever he was there to study, and apparently he was the only one with guts enough to ask Mr. Jones about his past (their past, really; _the_ past). Even Haverson, who'd tried to get a leg over, hadn't really ever _talked_ much to him. People saw Lo talking to the librarian and decided he must have some special touch, some skill at eliciting information.

He let fall little gossippy details here and there, nothing that could harm Mr. Jones, and only when it was to his advantage to tell someone. Lo knew the power of information on an enclosed station, and he used it. He didn't see it as particularly wrong; he knew full well Mr. Jones had probably talked to Kraf and the Chaplain about him, and maybe to the Steward too. Perhaps it wasn't really that Mr. Jones was shy at all. Perhaps it was just that he liked to get to know a person first before they slept together. Lo didn't have to understand it, he decided.

"This was what I carried," Mr. Jones said, when Lo asked him about his guns again. He showed Lo in the database the gun he meant, a wicked-looking black number with an awful lot of moving parts.

"Seriously, I'm shocked you haven't lost a finger," Lo said. Mr. Jones chuckled.

"They're very precise instruments. They almost never blow up. I'd show you, if they made them anymore," he said. "And if letting off ballistics in a space station wasn't an insanely bad idea."

"I've got my first shore leave on Earth soon," Lo said. Mr. Jones raised an eyebrow.

"If you get your hands on one, which would not surprise me, I want you to swear you won't fire it without training."

"No fear," Lo said. "You know we have a gun range on the station."

"Light-carriers," Mr. Jones shrugged. "I wouldn't know how to work one."

"It's pretty basic. You point it at what you want to kill and then you push the button," Lo told him. "I could show you."

"I know for a fact you can't possibly be licenced to instruct me in gun safety," Mr. Jones told him.

"I carried one for years. Standard issue in the 43rd," Lo said proudly. "And when I was flying rustbuckets that's what we fought with. Front-mounted dual-action light-carrier gatlings, they'll take down anything smaller than a shuttle in about four seconds."

"And anything bigger than a shuttle?"

"Well, a little bit longer," Lo said, and then shut his mouth sharply. He hadn't meant to talk about the 43rd, not to a civ for sure; what was more, he'd just talked about it without feeling the usual tightness, the dizzy panic that sometimes accompanied it when he talked about it to the Chaplain.

Mr. Jones just watched him thoughtfully for a while, then bent back to the porterminal screen, clearing the image of the gun away. "No reason a librarian would need a light-carrier," he remarked.

"You never know," Lo answered lightly. "Seriously. If I can get the arms master to say yes, can I teach you?"

Mr. Jones seemed to stop and consider it. Lo waited eagerly.

" _If_ you get permission," Mr. Jones said, and Lo's smile broke wide.

"Deal," he answered, offering his hand. Mr. Jones took it across the library counter, and Lo impulsively pulled Mr. Jones's hand up to his lips, bending his head, and kissed it quickly.

"Troublemaker," Mr. Jones said, grinning as he pulled his hand back. Lo glanced around to see several Skins and a few Cadets watching them. "No more of that. Go on now."

Lo ran off to his corner -- everyone else knew better than to even try to sit there now -- and threw himself into his chair. He called up MemoBase on his porterminal first thing, and sent a quick message to the arms master to see if he could get permission to teach Mr. Jones to shoot a light-carrier. The man was bound to say yes; he said Lo was a natural shot, and Lo knew he thought Mr. Jones was hot and wouldn't deny himself a chance to see their 21st-century guest handling a gun.

***

"So," Blithe said to Ianto, the morning after Boeshane had offered to teach him to handle a light-carrier, "I hear you're going shooting."

Ianto laughed. "Word travels. Yeah, I was thinking of it. Boeshane suggested it."

"He fancies you," she told him, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear -- she was one of the few people on the station with hair below their collar, and one lock of it always fell forward. Ianto supposed it gave her something to do with her hands.

"I don't think so. He's just bored here," Ianto told her. "Quantico doesn't impress him."

"But you do," Blithe said.

"I interest him. Different beast." Ianto sipped his coffee. "By the way, this is the last of the twenty-first-century coffee."

"Shedding your bitter-coffee ways?" she asked.

"I ran out."

"I'll have to stock you up with the modern stuff," Blithe mused. "I'll show you how to brew it, too."

"I'd like that. Actually..." Ianto set his cup down carefully, studying it. "I've been thinking I should...try to adapt more."

"So you decided shooting was a good start?" Blithe asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Well -- no -- I thought, actually..." Ianto glanced up from his coffee at her. "I think I've come to 'yet'. At least, I want to. I'd like -- to see you some evening."

She smiled. "You sound so old-fashioned."

"But you're still interested?" Ianto asked.

"Very much so," she assured him, and cupped his jaw with her free hand, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. Her hand was small and warm. "I just don't want to startle you. I thought you'd come around on your own, given time."

"Points for effort?" Ianto said, leaning into the caress, eyes closed.

"You understand what I'm offering and looking for, right?" she asked. "Just -- I want to be clear. I don't do single relationships. Sex, and a good time, because I like you. But I'm not going to be Your Girl and I'm not going to expect you to be My Boy."

"That...sounds sort of like...what I'd like, really," he answered, opening his eyes. Blithe smiled at him. "I don't want to be your boyfriend."

"Good. Tell you what, shore leave's soon," she said. "Why don't we make a day of it? We can catch a lift down to Earth, I'll show you around, nice dinner, drinks...sometimes it's fun to make a production out of it. Ianto Jones loses his fifty-first century virginity," she said, and Ianto laughed.

"Crude," he told her.

"Just wait till you hear me during sex." She leaned forward on the counter, at the perfect angle for him to bend slightly and kiss her. "Promising start," she said, into his mouth.

Ianto spared a moment to wonder what in god's name he thought he was doing, but most of him was focused on Blithe -- warm, coffee-tasting, so small even without comparison to Jack, and so carelessly affectionate, as if it didn't matter who knew that she liked him. Maybe it didn't.

"See you for shore leave?" he asked, nipping her bottom lip.

"Hmm, can't do coffee tomorrow; yeah, that'll be about it," she replied, leaning back. "Find someone who'll shuttle us down to Earth, would you? One of the Cadets -- get your pal Boeshane to give you a lift. I hear he's suspiciously smooth with a control yoke."

"I'll do that," he said. Blithe patted his hand and walked out of the library, and Ianto had to lean against the counter and let out a slow breath.

***

Lo was having one of his bad days -- nightmares the night before, and everything and everyone seemed washed out to him -- when he got Mr. Jones's memo in the middle of his afternoon History unit. He opened it, expecting it to be some dull all-hands message about library resources, the kind that seemed to go out from all the service ports about once a month. Instead it was a letter to him, personally, and he smiled for the first time all day.

_Boeshane: I need a favour. Ride for me and a friend down to Earth for leave tomorrow. Interested?_

He glanced at the professor, who was busy expounding on some boring 22nd century revolution he'd never heard of -- and keyed an answer back casually, as if he were just taking notes.

_I haven't filed my flight plan yet. Where were you thinking? Myles hasn't got any plans._

He could almost hear the dry drawl of Mr. Jones's voice in reply.

_The whole world to roam and no plans? Fairly unimaginative._

_So what's your big idea?_ Lo challenged.

There was a certain pause between the send and the reply, which could have been caused by a student needing help but sounded, to Lo, like hesitation.

_Haven't got one. I haven't seen much of Earth lately._

Lo snorted. _I haven't seen it at all. You have to have come from Earth. Want to see what's happened to the old home town while you were adventuring in time?_

_I doubt Cardiff exists anymore. Haven't the oceans risen?_

"Boeshane!" the professor called, and Lo looked up from his Porterminal. "What did I just say?"

"The diaspora of the nine independent colonies of New America spread their cultural beliefs over thousands of other states and countries," Lo recited. The professor looked annoyed that his students could multitask.

"Cultural beliefs such as?"

"Probably food and manners, sir," Lo said indifferently.

"Are you guessing?"

"Yes, sir."

"Based upon?"

"Every other cultural diaspora we've studied, sir," Lo sighed. A few of the other Cadets snickered.

"No points for presentation, but your accuracy is noted," the professor said, and continued on with his lesson. Lo bent back to his porterminal.

_Cardiff's the capital of the Welsh States. Even I know that. It has a base, too, which suits me. Why not go there?_

Mr. Jones replied quickly. _You're going from a station to a base? Very independent living, Boeshane._

Lo glanced at Myles, who was sitting across the room, twiddling a stylus between her fingers. Cardiff could be a good time.

 _I'm on scholarship, so my credit's only good on base,_ he wrote, looping Myles in on the message. _Myles? Cardiff? I hear there are beaches. Beaches mean cookouts and that means free food. Come with me and eat high._

He saw Myles bite her lip to keep from laughing when the message came through.

 _I'm in,_ she wrote. _Who's your friend, Mr. Jones?_

 _Steward and I are going down,_ Mr. Jones said. Myles, Lo saw, was stifling another laugh.

 _Well, I always like to hear who's going down,_ she wrote back.

 _I'll file the plan,_ Lo sent, before Mr. Jones could dig himself deeper. _Tomorrow at 1400. I'm on a 24 hour leave so, day after, be back at the base port at the same time._

 _I'm holding you to the promise of seafood._ Myles said, and Lo cleared his screen just in time for the professor to walk down his row, inspecting what he was working on.

It was, really, the highlight of his day. He felt tired and worn down, but he clung to the thin thread of pleasure that tomorrow he'd be taking Mr. Jones and the Steward down to Earth, and he and Myles could run around Cardiff and still have barracks beds open to them on the local base. There were bound to be dozens of things he could do with no money, in a big city like that, and he could think of a few ways to make some quick money too if it came down to it. He knew from a few brief leaves in his past with the 43rd that soldiers tended to drink for free.

The next day he skipped lunch completely in favour of going over every inch of the ship he'd been assigned for his leave -- he'd requested a four-occupancy ship when he filed his flight plan and undoubtedly the Steward had given him a bump to the top of the line. It wasn't exactly sleek but it was pretty good as shuttles went, and he wanted to be sure he knew everything about it before the others came on board. That was where Myles found him for the preflight, and where Mr. Jones and Steward found them both when they arrived -- Mr. Jones with a small bag slung over his shoulder, Steward with one under her arm.

"All in?" Lo asked, as they tossed their bags in the back. "Myles?"

"There's some whine on the aft gyro," she said. "I'll yell at the engineering Skins when we get back. Inconvenience, not dangerous," she added, as Mr. Jones turned a little pale. "In you go. Rookie picks the music," she added to Lo.

"Rookie my cock," he replied amiably. "Civs pick the music."

"He's been here less time than I have," Steward said. "Come on, Ianto, you pick a song."

"That's not going to distract you?" Mr. Jones asked carefully.

"It's an easy run," Lo said.

"If you heard what he talks about in flight class you'd be thankful for the music," Myles added.

Mr. Jones frowned, then leaned around them and plugged his porterminal into the console, scrolling through the entertainment database. He settled on a song just as Lo was going through final check with the docking authority, and they eased their way out of the bay to the opening chords of --

Well, of something.

"What is this?" Steward asked, sounding delighted.

"Embarrassing popular music," Mr. Jones replied. Myles, next to Lo, was drumming one hand on the console as she worked the other over the sync input. "It's from home. My time, I mean."

"It's...loud," Lo observed. Someone was saying something, but he couldn't understand the words. "What's it about?"

"It's in Late English," Myles exclaimed, glancing back at Mr. Jones. "Translate it for us!"

"Eh?" Mr. Jones looked at them, confused, and then seemed to realise something. "You can't understand the language, can you?"

"Not a word," Steward said. "Who cares? I like it."

"I think Lo's regretting letting me pick it," Mr. Jones said, but he was smiling. "It's about a man talking to a woman he used to know at school, and how they planned to meet up when they were grown -- that's the line, there -- _Let's all meet up in the year two thousand_."

"Two thousand," Myles said. "Wow."

"Anyway, he finds out she's married, but he still wants to meet with her," Mr. Jones finished. "It's about...time passing. I just thought, you know...it's a fast car sort of song."

Lo saw Steward twine her fingers with Mr. Jones's, when he looked back, and turned away again. He focused on piloting, breaking through Earth's atmosphere just as the song ended. Mr. Jones and Steward were talking, heads close together, so Lo stopped Myles from pestering them and tuned in a local broadcast with music he liked better anyway.

Mr. Jones did look amazing with a high flush on his cheeks, eyes dark as he spoke quietly with Steward. She was beautiful too, a little softer somehow, with some of her usual authority left behind at Quantico. Lo was well-pleased with all of it -- the prospect of fresh food, a city to play in, and the vague sense that he was sharing in something nice, something uncomplicatedly pleasant.

After they'd landed and Lo had run through security protocols with the Cardiff port, he popped his door and climbed out, inhaling the more humid, richer planetary air. Myles was standing, basking in the real solar light on the landing platform, and Mr. Jones and Steward already had their bags. It had been years since he'd stood on a planet.

"See you tomorrow, then?" Lo asked, winking at Steward.

"Don't get into trouble," Mr. Jones said, and passed him something flat and square, wrapped in a bit of paper (Mr. Jones used more paper than anyone Lo knew).

"What's this?" he asked, unfolding the paper. There were two small credit chits inside.

"Tipping the drivers," Mr. Jones said. "Planetary credits, I'm told they're good anywhere. It's a twenty-first century custom. _Very rude_ not to accept."

Lo passed one to Myles, who saluted Mr. Jones sharply, so Lo did the same. Mr. Jones laughed.

"Go," he said. "Blithe?"

"Show me Cardiff," Blithe said, wrapping an arm around Mr. Jones's waist as they walked off. He thought he heard a reply, something about not knowing anything about this Cardiff actually. Myles, next to him, crossed her arms as they watched the others depart.

"They are going to have so much sex," she said approvingly.

"It's about time," Lo agreed, turning to go. "Who would you pick?"

"Steward," she said, as they walked towards the base to check in for their bunks. "I bet I could lift her one-handed."

"She'd probably enjoy that," Lo grinned.

"What about you? I hear you kissed Mr. Jones."

"Just his hand. I wouldn't want to choose. I'd ask them both."

"Cheating. And anyway I bet Mr. Jones wouldn't go in for that. Twenty-first century morals and all."

"He could be convinced," Lo answered. "Anyway. We have twenty-four hours and credits in hand, thank you twenty-first-century morals. Let's make trouble."

"You're all right, for a kid," Myles told him, and he cuffed her ear and then ran ahead as she cursed and tried to catch up.


	5. Chapter 5

Cardiff was not at all what Ianto remembered, but then he didn't really think it would be. The ocean levels hadn't risen, actually, at least according to the Wik, but the climate definitely had changed; it was winter in Cardiff and it felt like a late spring day. For all that this city resembled his, it might as well have been a different one entirely -- none of the streets were the same, and most of the landmarks were gone.

Blithe, he discovered, was a walker; she wanted to walk everywhere and see everything, and he didn't object. He'd spent enough time running in Cardiff. 

The castle was long gone, and so were the arcades. The Millennium Centre had been replaced with some kind of museum. When they finally made their way down to where he thought Mermaid Quay might once have been, they were greeted with a long stretch of very tropical-seeming sandy beach, and a hotel right where the Plass had once stood.

Although...there was a flat paved area, for hovercars to pull up to the hotel, and he noticed that one part of it was different to the others -- a darker shade, square and a little sunken.

Good old invisible lift. Still confounding general perception, three thousand years in the future. He had half a mind to go find out if it still worked, but he had no way of operating it and that wasn't why he was here -- he was here to see the city, with a pretty woman on his arm. The sun was out, and it was no longer his job to keep anyone safe. He was a tourist. It was someone else's job to keep him safe.

"You've gone quiet," Blithe said, as they stopped to lean on a guardrail and watch the water lap at the sand below.

"Just remembering something," he said, smiling.

"Good memory, I hope?"

"Of a sort. When I lived here, my life was...difficult."

"And it's not now?" she asked, patting his arm.

"Not in the same way. It's just...nice to be outside, nice not to have to listen with one ear for trouble. I loved -- I loved the feeling of being useful. Doing something important. But it was always all or nothing. It's good to have a little nothing, for a little while."

They stood there in silence until Blithe turned around and elbowed him gently. "Come on. I have a big fancy dinner booked on the water, and afterward I hear there are beach fires. Sounds romantic, doesn't it?"

He smiled. "It does. Lead the way."

It _was_ romantic, and above and beyond that it was so easy. Jack had never been the easiest man to try and have anything approaching a relationship with, but even when Ianto had been -- normal, when he'd just been some boy filing papers in London, there was always an edge to this dance. Making sure a girl liked you, getting her to go out with you, wondering if you'd have sex...going on the pull, it was hard and sometimes it didn't feel worth it. But it didn't matter if Blithe liked him, really, though she did; didn't matter who paid for dinner, didn't matter because sex was easy here, sex was something people liked to do and didn't seem to find shameful or difficult. He was going to have a nice dinner, see the bonfires on the beach, and then go back to a hotel room he'd booked with a view of the city and have sex with a beautiful woman, and maybe stop thinking for a while.

"How did you know about this?" he asked, sitting down next to her on a dune on a beach to the southwest of what had once been Mermaid Quay. "You said you didn't know Cardiff."

"I looked it up," she replied. She wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned against him a little. Down below, there were at least four fires burning, and food was cooking on them -- Boeshane's idea of haute cuisine, no doubt. "I love learning about things like this. Secret pleasures of a place."

"Poetic," he said.

"Keeps me from stiffening up like people do who work with the Fleet," she told him. "Quantico's just training ground for me, you know. I'm working on my certs to become a civilian quartermaster, and then it's off to see the stars I go."

"Nice plan. See the world on the Fleet's dime, without all the saluting."

Blithe flicked sand off her bare toes, smiling. "That's the idea. What about you? You've got friends in high places and you're a smart man. Why would you want to come back to Earth? You could see the universe, I bet."

He laughed to himself as he realised what his answer was. "I'm waiting for a doctor."

"A doctor? For your face?"

Ianto rubbed the numb nuskin on his cheek. Sometimes he forgot it was there. "No, he's...not that kind of doctor. It's difficult to explain."

"No difficult tonight," she said. "I don't need to know. Just curious."

Down below, on the beach, there was some kind of music playing. People were dancing -- boys with boys, girls with girls, boys with girls. It still startled him sometimes to see the freedom they had, here; it wasn't something he'd often seen back home. They switched off so fluidly, too. It didn't even seem to matter who they danced with, so long as they danced.

_Dancing cheek to cheek and pants to pants_ \-- that was one of Jack's old showtunes, wasn't it? _Gee, I wish I was back in the army; the army was the place to find romance..._

As if she'd read his mind, Blithe stood up and held out her hand. "Come on, librarian," she said, pulling him upright. "Play me some other song Boeshane would probably hate, and let's dance."

Ianto took the porterminal she offered him and scrolled through. Well, as long as he was embracing his mortifying knowledge of pop music...

Much as with the people nearer the bonfires, it wasn't dancing so much as an excuse to stand close to someone; and perhaps _Champagne Supernova_ wasn't the most romantic song in the universe, but Blithe didn't know that.

"What's this one about?" she asked, allowing him to shuffle her around the sand.

"I'm not actually sure," he admitted. "I'm not certain it means anything."

"Still catchy," she said, as it ended. "Come on, one more."

Well, what the hell.

"This," he told her, very seriously, "has no lyrics at all. It's by a man named Miller, and my boyfriend used to play it. Incessantly, at times."

Blithe smiled and swung him around a little as the music began. "It's wonderful. What's this one called?"

Ianto kissed her before he answered, their feet kicking up sand as they danced. " _In the Mood_."

***

Lo hadn't actually meant to be stalking Mr. Jones and Steward. Apparently they, like everyone else, just knew that this was the place to be.

There was a lot to recommend the beach; the requisite fire-roasted seafood had been consumed, some kind of local homebrew had been drunk, and the last time he'd seen Myles she was wandering off with a young Cardiff man, presumably to have fun in a dune somewhere. He preferred not to pick a partner so early in the evening, and he might well go back to the base alone -- but he was very much enjoying the dancing. From where he stood, lower on the beach, it looked like Mr. Jones and Steward were enjoying it too.

They weren't keeping time with the music, though, at least not the music he could hear, and they probably couldn't hear it up there. He hoped Mr. Jones wasn't inflicting more of the stuff they'd heard in the shuttle earlier on her.

He sidled closer, keeping cover behind a dune. Now he could hear it, just faintly, and in another few steps it came clearer over the receding noise of the dancers on the beach. Not at all the music from earlier. Something simple, yes, but with an odd rhythm, impossible to keep out of his head.

Beautiful music, that was what it was, nothing synthetic about it, rising and falling -- wonderful music. Nothing he'd ever heard before.

He got lost in it for just a minute -- it wasn't a long song -- but he tried to remember as much of it as he could, so he could find a way to ask about it later. When it was over, Mr. Jones and Steward were already leaving, and a woman from the beach found Lo and reeled him back into the dancing near the fire, but the few bars he'd caught in his head stayed with him. That and the image of firelit shadows far up above the beach, moving in time to it, hips swaying, bodies turning around and around.

"Lo, where've you been?" Myles asked, looking decidedly mussed and well-satisfied with herself. "There are half a dozen boys looking for you, and about twice as many girls."

"I like to be mysterious," he answered absently. "Did you see Mr. Jones up on the ridge there?"

"No, is he here? With Steward?" Myles asked, scanning the distance.

"They left. They were -- " he was about to blurt out about the amazing music, but then he stopped himself. It sounded a little insane even to him, and he'd had just enough of whatever they were passing around in jugs to be affected. "They were dancing," he finished.

"Nice," Myles said, even as she was being tugged away by someone to start a new dance. "Have fun, Boeshane!"

"You should do what she says," a boy said to him, leaning on his shoulder. "Boeshane, huh? You're far from home."

"Pretty far," Lo agreed. "I've never been on Earth before."

"Well, space-boy, you want to dance?"

***

The next morning, Ianto woke late and slowly, enjoying the luxury of not having anywhere to be or anything to do until the afternoon. He felt as if one last knot of tension somewhere in his gut had eased, and he could finally stop listening for the whirr of the TARDIS, or the sound of a siren or a mobile with Jack summoning him to a crime scene in the middle of the night.

Blithe was sprawled on her stomach next to him, naked, having thrown off most of the covers sometime in the night. She was beautiful -- and inventive. And easy-spoken in the same way Jack had been, the shameless way she asked for what she wanted and told him what she liked. Which was a relief in itself, because she was the first woman for him since Lisa, and...well, he had been a little worried that he'd have forgotten what it was like, or been bad at it through lack of practice.

No fear. He was satisfied, and he knew she was. She had told him so. Loudly.

He smoothed a hand down her body, from her shoulder to her back, along her hip, dragging his thumb a little over the curve of her arse. She wriggled, turned to face him, and smiled sleepily.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Dunno," Ianto said. "Don't care."

"Mm. Good." She inched closer, sprawling on his chest and nuzzling under his jaw. "Sleep well?"

"Very." He drew one leg up, nudging her body slightly until she rested flush against him, hips pressed to his stomach. "You?"

She yawned, then laughed. "All evidence to the contrary, yes."

"You could sleep some more -- "

"Sleep's not what I'm interested in," she answered, rocking backwards just enough to brush against his erection. "Unless you'd prefer to take care of that on your own."

"Be my guest," he said, and she swatted his chest.

"You were nervous last night," she remarked, still moving gently, maddeningly against him. "Twenty-first century jitters?"

"It'd been a while, that's all," he told her, sliding his hands up from her hips to her breasts. "You're an understanding woman."

"Pleasure should be easy," Blithe said, rising up on her knees and leaning back. "It should be -- oh -- " she interrupted herself as he pushed his hips up, sliding into her. "Should be something you look forward to. Not something to be afraid of."

"You've convinced me," he said, letting her move slowly, trying to lie still. She seemed to be enjoying herself, one hand flattened over her stomach, the other propped on his chest. She made a soft, pleased sort of humming sound every time she rose up, hips canted a little so that his cock dragged across her clit. Ianto arched his head back and closed his eyes.

"Good?" she asked, still moving slowly, apparently in no hurry. He was; his skin felt hot, and hers was smooth and cool. He grabbed her waist and rolled them, suddenly, and she laughed.

"Better," he said, pressing her down on the sheets. She wrapped her thighs around his hips, rocking lazily, but when he sped up the rhythm she did too, telling him how much she liked that, demanding a kiss or a bite or to look him in the eyes when she -- oh -- tightened around him and moaned, coming.

"Don't stop," she panted, fingernails raking his back, so he didn't until she slid one hand down to his arse and held him still and quivering on the edge.

"Now come," she whispered, bucking her hips. He moaned his orgasm into her neck, almost ashamed at the sheer luxury of it. "That's it. Beautiful boy."

He breathed deeply, trying for coherence for a minute or two before he managed it.

"Beautiful girl," he answered.

"Yes, I know," she said, laughing. "You were made for our time, Ianto, you know that -- don't you? I didn't think you'd enjoy this as much as you did."

"We did _like_ sex in the twenty-first century," he said, sliding off her and back into the glorious mess of blankets. "We just had some...cultural issues about it."

"You seem to have adapted nicely."

"My boyfriend -- " _got me used to fifty-first century thinking_ he was about to say, but that would lead to questions, and he did still have a certain duty to Torchwood, " -- was good practice."

"Exhibitionist?"

"Only in the sense that he wanted everyone to be looking at him constantly," he said.

"Was he pretty?"

"Gorgeous," Ianto said absently, realising that he was thinking of Jack in the past tense, as if he weren't at this moment running around some other star system somewhere.

Perhaps he ought to stay here. Just simply...refuse the trip home. He had a good job, and this century suited him. He wasn't saving the world, but he'd never actually asked for that job. The only people waiting for him, really waiting for him, were Gwen and Jack -- and Jack was inured to losing lovers, and Gwen had Rhys and Torchwood.

"Breakfast," Blithe decided, sliding out of bed. He admired the sway of her hips as she walked to the porterminal docked in the wall and keyed in an order. "Anything in particular?"

"Whatever you're having," he replied. She tapped the screen a few more times, then disappeared into the bathroom to wash. He decided to give her five minutes and then join her.

A man could get used to the fifty-first century.

***

Lo was hung over and sore when he met Myles and their passengers on the landing pad the following day, but it was the best kind of sore, and he didn't mind the hangover as long as he didn't have to go back to classes before he'd had a long bath and some sleep. Myles looked similarly rough around the edges and cheerful; Steward looked like she'd actually had a full night's sleep.

And Mr. Jones looked...

He looked languid, certainly more relaxed than Lo had ever seen him, content to sit back and watch the stars run past the scroll screen as they made their way back to Quantico. He hardly batted an eye when Lo gave Steward a fairly in-depth description of just how he'd ended up so sore, and when Myles started in on her adventures in the dunes Mr. Jones simply put an arm around Steward's shoulders and listened.

They parted in the shuttle bay: Myles to her quarters, Mr. Jones to the library, Steward to the quartermaster's office to check in. Lo walked with Myles as far as his room, then left her for a long soak and a strategy meeting with himself.

As he sat in the bath, he considered how to broach the topic of the music. He didn't want Mr. Jones to think he'd been spying, and there was something attractive in the idea of a little foolery. In the war he'd been good at tactics, good at getting the other pilots to do what he'd wanted them to do -- good enough that sometimes the officers had asked him for a little hand, and he'd been happy enough to oblige. But making pilots toe the line was different from ingratiating himself with the students here (which he'd been, objectively, pretty shit at) and definitely different from convincing a shy chrono-displaced librarian to share his cultural wealth with him. Maybe he was out of practice. It had been a long imprisonment, and a long recuperation aboard the ship that had brought him here.

When he closed his eyes, sometimes he still heard his dispatch operator over the comm, deathly serene, warning the pilots not to return to the flagship, that the 43rd had taken heavy fire and was a lost cause. Sometimes he still heard the soft, wet noises the Flyers made when they moved.

He forced himself not to think about that. Instead he called up the few short bars of music he'd managed to stick in his half-drunk, sex-addled brain on the beach. It washed out the damp shuffling, the calm measured tones of the dying. Maybe it had been the beach, the fires, the alcohol -- maybe it had been the lovely uncomplicated thing Steward and Mr. Jones had possessed. But maybe it was the music, and he desperately wanted more of it. What if it could fix him?

_Na-naaaa (de da de doo dah dee dee doo dah de dah)_   
_Na-naaaa (de da de doo dah dee dee doo dah de dah)_   
_Duh de duh (na naaaa) de duh de doo dah..._

He supposed he could do research on his own. Most of the professors made their entertainment lists a matter of public record, so the students could study them if they chose. Mr. Jones, he knew from the brief survey of the 21st that they'd had in History, would be much more likely to guard his privacy, coming from a time when personal privacy was highly valued, when even nudity was considered shocking rather than just a mild inconvenience if the weather was cold.

He reached for his porterminal, dripping soapy water on the floor, and tapped into the profile base. As suspected -- nothing from Mr. Jones except the usual library study announcements. No joy there, then. Although...

If he did a little research on his own, just enough to convince Mr. Jones of a burgeoning interest in his time period, maybe that was his way in. Who knew, he might find what he was looking for on his own. Mr. Jones came from the early twenty-first, bleeding into the twentieth. Not the most well-recorded period in history, but he'd found the car all right.

He backtracked in his history to the Wik entry about the cars, found "James Bond" like Mr. Jones had mentioned, and to his surprise discovered not only a film but a playlist of some kind associated with it.

**Soundtrack** : _A marketing device popular in the twentieth through twenty-ninth centuries. The incidental or popular music associated with a "film" would be collected and stored, initially on a portable monotask storage device, for purchase. These discs could be listened to with the use of a primitive playback mechanism. Ancestors of the modern playlist, the storage devices were usually round and flat, either black or silver, and often imprinted with a list of the files stored on them. See also: Analog Music Box, Vinyl Preservation Institute, Phonograph, Britney Spears, iTouch, Data Piracy (Historical)._

The music, when he played it, wasn't quite right. Some of it was nice enough, but nothing that sounded like he'd heard on the beach.

He got lost in the Wik for about two hours, first in the bath and then in bed after drying himself off. By the end he'd gathered enough bookmarks and little scraps of information that he felt he could probably go to Mr. Jones with it -- but he'd wait a day or two.

Comforted with his plan of action, Lo curled up with his porterminal clutched to his chest, playing the Soundtrack with its not-quite-right music, until he fell asleep.

***

The best thing about the fifty-first century, Ianto decided, was that nobody was awkward about this kind of thing.

"So, still feeling refreshed after shore leave?" Blithe asked, over their customary morning cup of coffee -- the too-sweet not-warm-enough stuff, now that his supplies were depeleted.

"Yes -- Boeshane was right, it was nice to see the old place again," Ianto said. She smiled easily.

"I can imagine. You're settling in pretty well. Sometimes they don't," she added. "Chrono-displacements, I mean. I think it's a little cruel of the Time Agency not to take them back, but I guess Central knows best."

"Central?"

"The Centre," Blithe said. "The most mega-super computer ever built. It can track timelines. Generally a refugee application is submitted and the Centre decides whether or not they can go home."

"Huh. Didn't happen to me."

"Maybe your friend the Admiral took care of it? Anyway, usually it turns them down. Time Travel is only to be used for repairing rifts and discrepancies identified by the Centre," she recited, as if she'd read it in a pamphlet somewhere. "We're lucky to have them, though."

"Does time go sideways that often, then?"

"They say it didn't used to. Something happened -- it's all math theory, mind you, but apparently they've calculated that there was some incident that affected the way time functions. Sort of like calculating how long ago stars died when you actually see them die in the readouts -- the speed of light. It's pretty complicated, but they call it the Fracture. That's what the Time Agency does, fixes what the Fracture messed up."

"You know a lot about it," he observed, then realised this was probably, for her, like him explaining the Big Bang to an Arthurian knight.

"It's not hard to find if you know what to look for. Anyway, it's moot, since it's just a theory and nobody knows what caused it," Blithe continued. Ianto thought about the files he'd seen in Torchwood, in his time, and one Jack hadn't meant him to see: a personal file about the Time Lords and the Daleks and their -- well, their little war.

"Probably true though," he remarked, and changed the subject to other things. It was that easy -- Blithe didn't need to know where they stood, or bring up the sex again, and he didn't feel like an arse for treating her the way he always had, as a friend.

He might have expected snickerings from Boeshane and Myles, too, in another time and place, but when Myles came in to study she just gave him a wave and sat in her usual spot, and Boeshane didn't even show up at all for a day or two, which wasn't unusual. When he did, he came up to the desk at ten minutes to closing and announced he was Doing Research.

"On what?" Ianto asked, leaning on his desk. Boeshane was the last into the library, and even as they spoke a pair of Skins were the last to leave, giving him and Boeshane the whole place to themselves.

"Your time," Boeshane said excitedly. "I found a soundrail for your James Bond thing."

Ianto frowned. "A what?"

"A playlist? Did I get it wrong?"

"Soundtrack."

"That. Anyway, I thought it might be a good final project for History. Sounds of the Twenty First Century."

Ianto raised an eyebrow. "I thought your classes were mostly in military history."

"I can't branch out?" Boeshane asked.

"At five minutes to closing?"

"Aw, come on, Mr. Jones," Boeshane moaned. He had an angle, Ianto could see that much, but he wasn't sure what it was -- and if it was a seduction it was at least a little more subtle than Haverson's, and the desk was between them.

"Fine. What do you need?"

Boeshane beamed. "Music. So, I found this stuff, but it's not what I'm looking for."

"What are you looking for?" Ianto asked, as _Goldfinger_ blared out of the porterminal's speakers.

"Something jumpier!" Boeshane said. "You know, more like...badaah! Dahh! Dah-baah!" he said, clapping his hands together and then spreading them wide. Ianto decided that they couldn't possibly have Jazz Hands in the fifty-first century, but the resemblance was uncanny.

"I can see why you need help," Ianto said drily. "Something with more 'bah-dah'."

"Yeah!"

"Well, there's disco," Ianto suggested dubiously, then dismissed it before Boeshane could ask him to play _Saturday Night Fever_. "Or -- try this?" he suggested, and pulled up Madonna. Boeshane wrinkled his nose. Ianto tried grunge, about four seconds of rap, _Wonderwall_ , and Robbie Williams before he decided maybe tracking backwards would be more...uh, 'bah-dah'.

"That's almost it," Boeshane said, when he put on Frank Sinatra.

Ianto hesitated, then finally scrolled into his personal playlists and found one he hadn't listened to in weeks, because he still felt creepy listening to Jack's music in the dark after work.

"There, that!" Boeshane said excitedly. "What's that one?"

"Benny Goodman," Ianto told him. "It's called _Sing, Sing, Sing._ "

"Why?" Boeshane asked. He looked fascinated.

"I...have no clue," Ianto confessed.

"It's great!" He looked for a second like he was having a fit, until Ianto realised he was trying to dance. He paused the song and skipped to another.

"Fats Waller," he said, before Boeshane could ask. " _Ain't Misbehavin_."

Boeshane looked like he was going to have a paroxysm of joy. "How do they make that sound?"

Ianto sighed. "It's called a piano."

"It's dancing music, right?"

"Yes -- you're doing it wrong," Ianto laughed, as Boeshane tried to figure out how to move to it. "No, look, like this."

He came under the flip-trap of the desk and took one of Boeshane's hands, putting the other one on his hip. Boeshane snickered, but rested his free hand on Ianto's shoulder.

"My boyfriend taught me this," Ianto said, walking him slowly through the steps. It wasn't really anything formal, just the random swing steps Jack had insisted on teaching him one night when he was in a funny mood. Boeshane caught on quickly, then let go and moved off into his own little strange two-step.

"What do the words mean?" he asked, still dancing. Ianto leaned back and smiled.

"He doesn't go out late or see other women -- other people -- because he's waiting for his love," he said, watching Boeshane dance. "Being with other people doesn't matter to him, because he's in love with one person."

"Oh," Boeshane said. His face fell a little. "That's terribly sad."

"No, it's -- a sign of devotion, was at the time anyway. It's supposed to be funny. The way he says it, you get the sense he might not be telling the whole truth," Ianto said. "It's sort of about...not asking too much about what someone gets up to when you're not around."

"Why would you care?" Boeshane asked, stopping for breath.

"Some of us did. Your friend Debra, her girlfriend did, didn't she?"

"Point," Boeshane agreed. "What about you?"

"Me as well, once. I learned not to. I know not to, now."

"Not pining for Steward, are you?" Boeshane asked. The playlist skipped to the next song, and Ianto knew better than to answer. The boy looked positively struck dumb.

_After one whole quart of brandy,_   
_Like a daisy I'm awake;_   
_With no bromo-seltzer handy_   
_I don't even shake._

"This is Ella," Ianto said gently.

"What's Ella?"

_Men are not a new sensation;_   
_I've done pretty well, I think._   
_But this half-pint imitation_   
_Put me on the blink..._

"Ella Fitzgerald. She's the one singing. It's a song about how she's in love with a young man and doesn't know what to do about it."

"That...that _is_ sad, right?" Boeshane asked uncertainly. Ianto nodded. "But it's so beautiful."

Ianto smiled. "Finally found some history you like?"

_I'm wild again, beguiled again_   
_A simpering, whimpering child again_   
_Bewitched, bothered and bewildered_   
_Am I..._

Boeshane nodded. They let the music play in silence -- Ianto pleased, Boeshane incandescent -- until Ella's last notes faded off.

"How do I find this stuff?" Boeshane asked.

"I'll make you a list," Ianto promised. "There might be translations of the lyrics. If not, come back and I'll help. You really like this, hm?" he asked, and Boeshane nodded. "Why?"

"Don't know," the boy said, but there was something in his tone that betrayed him. Ianto caught his eye and held it, curious. "It -- makes the noise go away."

"Noise?"

"Things I hear," Boeshane muttered, looking away. "From the war. It makes them quiet."

"Yes, I can see how that would be," Ianto said. Boeshane's glance was deeply suspicious. "I do get lonely, you know. I miss home."

"I haven't got a home to miss."

"But you still -- want peace," Ianto said. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere that fits. Even if you know you can't have it."

"How do you know that?" Boeshane asked, less suspicious now -- almost eager.

"Sometimes nothing in my life fitted together," Ianto shrugged. "I understand the urge."

"Does it go away?"

"I don't know." Ianto silenced the porterminal and held it out. "I'll send a list to you through MemoBase. I should have closed up fifteen minutes ago."

Boeshane nodded, but when he took the porterminal he trapped Ianto's fingers with his other hand, sliding the little device out of his grasp but still holding onto him. This time there was no surprise; Boeshane telegraphed what he was going to do, but Ianto wasn't sure how to untangle himself gracefully, and given the boy's fragile look, wasn't inclined to try. Boeshane kissed his hand again, dry and quick, looking up to see if Ianto approved before letting go of his palm.

Then he was gone again, through the big glass doors, whistling _Ain't Misbehavin'_ \-- he'd picked that up quickly.

Ianto locked the doors with the remote, dimmed down the library lights, and picked up his own porterminal. He keyed it back to Madonna, just to get the sound of Ella's plaintive singing out of his head, and tidied up the study tables before going back to his rooms at the far end of the library. No more jazz tonight. He'd send Boeshane the list in the morning, when the nameless fear of uncertainty wasn't lurking around in the shadows.

***

Lo could tell that Mr. Jones was a bit wary of him after their impromptu concert in the library, but he didn't care. He knew Mr. Jones had some weird policy about sex with students, but either he liked Lo better than Haverson (who wouldn't) or he had decided Lo wasn't going to go any further than kissing his hand (he hadn't). At any rate, Mr. Jones stopped protesting when Lo kept showing up after everyone else had left, and two or three nights a week he'd either play him something new or let Lo blither on about the music.

It was just -- it was so great, it got into him and it kept the noise away and if he fell asleep listening to a bunch of music Mr. Jones had grouped under "Cole Porter" the nightmares weren't so bad. And yeah, okay, one night he'd stumbled over something called _Moon River_ and cried without knowing why for about two hours, but sometimes that happened for no reason at all, and after he'd felt better.

"You're becoming an expert," Mr. Jones observed, when Lo correctly identified Louis Armstrong's trumpet one evening. "I hear your history marks have come up."

"My colony never made anything like this," Lo shrugged. "I guess Earth's okay."

"Well, on behalf of my home planet, thank you," Mr. Jones drawled.

"Anyway I've decided -- can you keep a secret?" Lo asked.

Mr. Jones got that expression, the one he sometimes got that said if he were a certain kind of man he'd have a story to tell. "Yes. I have some practice."

"When I get out of here, I'm going to be a Time Agent," Lo whispered, a thrill running down his spine at telling someone. "It's all arranged. When I am, I'm going to go back to Earth and hear Ella Fitzgerald sing for real."

Mr. Jones looked...well, actually kind of alarmed. "What do you mean?"

"There's a scholarship to the Agency Academy waiting for me. When I get my strap I'm going to -- " Lo cut off abruptly. In his mind, it had been so clear -- find and rescue Gray, run to "the forties" where nobody would find them, and make a home. But not even Mr. Jones could know about Gray. "I'm going to ask to be assigned to Earth."

Mr. Jones studied him. "Someone's watching over you."

Lo nodded. "During the war I did some...some work for someone. He took a personal interest. Not like that," he added, when Mr. Jones delicately arched an eyebrow. "He said I could be famous, or I could be a Time Agent."

"Sounds like you made a wise decision."

"Maybe," Lo shrugged. "It's made now, anyway. And there aren't many people my age who can say they're bound by the Military Confidentiality laws. Bet you might know something about that, though."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, the way you talk -- you were in a war, weren't you?" Lo asked. Mr. Jones frowned.

"No, I -- not a war," Mr. Jones said. "I...protected people. I helped make sure the future would happen. For people like you," he added. "I never really thought about that before. Makes griping about never getting to go home and do the washing a bit silly, I suppose."

"Admiral Levy brought you here. I just assumed," Lo said.

"He's a friend of a friend."

"The most well-connected librarian in space," Lo teased. "Prettiest too."

"Now you're just messing me about," Mr. Jones said easily. "Run along. Ah!" he added, holding up his hand before Lo could grab it. "Enough of that."

Lo beamed at him and kissed his fingertips instead. "Sorry, Mr. Jones. I can't resist."

Mr. Jones shoved his forehead lightly, pushing him away. "Go, study, work hard. If we're going to trust you with time-travel, you ought to be getting top marks."

***

Not long after Boeshane revealed his secret ambition -- the Time Agency, the boy didn't aim low -- Ianto found himself on the station's firing range, looking at a vast wall of weaponry.

They seemed so much like children's toys, smooth and rounded, some brightly coloured and some dark for camouflage. He was mildly familiar with the hand-held light-carrier pistols, which most closely resembled the guns he'd carried in Torchwood; the larger guns were totally unfamiliar, and he couldn't see the safeties or triggers on half of them.

"I know better than this," he said to Boeshane, who grinned impishly at him and passed his porterminal over the scanner. _Identified Cadet Third Year Lo Boeshane_ a digital voice said. Ianto sighed and swiped his own. _Identified Quantico Station Staff, Librarian, Ianto Jones_.

"You'll have fun," Boeshane reassured him. "It's completely safe. Much safer than what you used to have, anyway."

One of the station sergeants emerged from some mysterious back room and leaned on the counter in front of the wall of guns. "Afternoon, Cadet. This your trainee?"

"Yessir," Boeshane said smartly. "Mr. Jones."

"What's a librarian need a light-carrier for?" the sergeant asked.

"I don't," Ianto said. "I'm indulging a madman."

Boeshane saluted. The sergeant leaned back and gestured at the wall.

"Two grade one pistols, the light rifle, and the bayonet, please," Boeshane said. To Ianto's amazement, the sergeant just shrugged and took down the requested weaponry.

"Bayonet?" he hissed.

"Well, yeah. You gotta see the projection blade," Boeshane replied. He accepted the bin of guns, pressed his thumb to the pad the sergeant held out, and led the way down the hall to a private shooting room.

It was different from what Ianto was used to, an old tunnel at the Hub with bare lightbulbs for illumination and the smell of cordite always in the air. The room was clean and as well-lit as anywhere on the station, with a table protruding from one wall. There were no targets that he could see, until Boeshane flipped a switch and a set of floating, ghostly holo-targets appeared.

Boeshane hummed jazz as he laid out the guns, and Ianto had a flash -- back? forward? -- to his weapons training with Jack, when Jack insisted he learn to shoot. Different music; Jack liked to sing under his breath, _I would swim the ocean wide, I would cross the great divide, I would do anything for you..._

Boeshane preferred sad songs, poor kid. Ianto caught the melody after a second. Ella again.

_There's a someone I'm longing to see,_   
_I hope that he turns out to be_   
_Someone to watch over me..._

It was incongruous, watching Boeshane's large, capable hands with the guns while he hummed a song about wanting to be cared for. Perhaps he hadn't read the translated lyrics.

"So," Boeshane said, abruptly turning to him with one of the pistols in his hand. "You always check your charge first." He popped out a little blue vial from the back and examined it. "Full up, see? Charge'll last you maybe five, six months in storage, a few days of heavy fire, a few weeks of occasional use. Pop it in like so. Next, make sure the safety's on..."

The security protocols weren't so different from a ballistic handgun -- precision, care, and caution, watchwords even three thousand years later -- but the gun was hard to learn to use. Ianto was used to a kick, braced and adjusted for it, and shot far wide of the mark. Even once he got used to the soft, totally motionless action, it was tough to remember that there was no pull or curve to a light beam; point and shoot was hard when his muscles were trained for something more complex. Boeshane was patient, if a little amused.

"Here, try this," he said, stepping up behind Ianto and wrapping an arm around his waist. So strange to think Boeshane was as tall as him -- he always thought of him as a kid, but he'd finally hit that last growth spurt, and his chest was filling out now that he could do more in the gym. His arm around Ianto's waist was all muscle, and his fingers wrapping around Ianto's hand were sure.

"You don't need to sight along your arm," he said in Ianto's ear, bending both their arms back and holding the weapon at Ianto's hip, like some kind of old-fashioned gunslinger. "Try like this," and his hand whipped up, bringing Ianto's with it, elbow drawing back, arm bent as they shot at the holographic target that appeared obediently in front of them. "Those guns of yours taught you bad habits."

"I'm trying," Ianto complained, repeating the gesture, Boeshane's fingers still on his. He wasn't as far off-centre this time.

"Good," Boeshane said against his neck. Ianto realised their bodies were flush, and this was -- much more than a kiss on the hand. Boeshane's body was warm, and his hand on Ianto's waist was rubbing gently, ever so slightly, at the uniform tunic.

Ianto drew a breath softly and tried again. Clearly the man was trying to distract him. Boeshane made a pleased noise and shifted his weight.

Distraction working. Ianto let his hand drop and pulled away, turning around.

"Why don't you show me the rifle -- " he began, but Boeshane was so close, almost nose to nose, and he had one hand splayed on Ianto's chest.

"Do you like this?" he asked softly.

"This?" Ianto said, curious. He should step back. He should make it very clear that Boeshane was not an exception to the no-fucking-the-students rule, Lo Boeshane with his sad jazz and pretty trinkets for Ianto and scars Ianto understood.

"Student, teacher," Boeshane said, bowing his head a little, staring at his hand on Ianto's chest. "Maybe you don't. You like to be in control?"

Ianto couldn't breathe. He knew Boeshane could feel his heart hammering in his chest, fear and arousal and confusion all mingled together.

"You like guns?" Boeshane asked, smiling.

"I..." Ianto heard the pistol clatter to the floor. Boeshane tilted his head just a little and kissed the side of his mouth, and it was too much, all of it. Ianto turned to make the kiss more even, felt Boeshane's mouth open, his tongue lick across Ianto's lips. He really shouldn't encourage him --

Boeshane sighed into his mouth and went after it with a sort of orderly, military precision, no prisoners taken. He was really very good at this, he was sliding his arm around Ianto's waist again, he was running his other hand up Ianto's thigh --

_Jack used to do that_ , Ianto thought, and then, _Jack used to sing in the range -- Jack used to like making out in the range -- Jack had blue eyes and that ridiculously perfect face --_

Oh god.

He jerked back, suddenly, so sharply that Boeshane almost fell forward. It was too close, too much like Jack, he was a student, Ianto had a responsibility --

"Lo," he said, warningly.

"Ianto," Lo murmured, unmoving, watching him.

"I can't," Ianto said, half-pleading, because he wasn't that good at resisting temptation and Lo was between him and the door.

"It's okay," Lo said, spreading his hands. "You can, it's okay, lots of teachers do it."

"No, I..." Ianto wanted to explain, but he wasn't sure how. "You're young, and...I don't..."

"You can't wait for him," Lo said. Ianto wasn't even sure what he meant until he stepped forward, continuing, almost pleading. "Whoever he was, he couldn't wait for you. He's long dead by now. You're here, your life is here. I just want -- I could -- like with Steward. I could make you happy like that," he blurted. Ianto stared at him, stunned. "I like you, I like the things you teach me."

"I can't," Ianto repeated. He moved forward, a little to one side, and Lo didn't block him, just tracked him with his eyes. "Lo, I'm sorry, I can't."

"He won't come for you," Lo said, turning as Ianto passed him but making no attempt to stop him. "He can't, Ianto."

Ianto ignored him because really that wasn't the point, but Lo didn't know that. Lo didn't know that the Doctor would fetch him and take him back to Jack and this would be a lonely dream, this place, this time.

"Ianto, I'm sorry," Lo called after him into the hallway as Ianto hurried away. He swiped himself out of the armory without stopping and all but ran back through the station, down a level, across the central ring, and into the dark safety of the library. He locked the door behind him, though he was fairly sure Lo hadn't followed, and walked into his quarters. He didn't stop until the doors shut and blocked out everything, the station, the library, Lo Boeshane's blue eyes and beautiful sad mouth.

His sad mouth that looked so much like Jack's. And this was Jack's home-time.

He leaned against the wall next to the scroll screen, eyes closed, getting his breathing and his swirling thoughts under control. Right; Boeshane had kissed him, which was nothing new really, just a new location for it, so he could section that off for later examination. He had enjoyed it, had wanted more, probably would have been willing to suspend what he suspected was an outdated rule anyway, but he _had_ stopped it, so he could set that aside too. He had slept with Blithe and at least he had experience with attraction to men, so no infidelity freakout and no homosexual panic. He could let those concerns go completely.

Lo Boeshane and Jack Harkness, that was harder to set aside. He looked like him, god, how had he never noticed? But surely Jack wouldn't have put Ianto here if he knew his younger incarnation was here as well. He couldn't know. Except...

Ianto took another deep breath. He could call Blithe -- no, he would call Kraf. He pushed his porterminal into the wall port and tapped the scroll screen, selecting Kraf's quarters from his contact list. There was a buzz and then a signal.

"Good evening, Ianto," Kraf said. He had a disconcerting habit -- probably intentional, to fuck with the humans -- of only showing his eyestalks on the vidscreen. Just two floating columns with eyeballs at the top. Ianto tugged on his tunic to straighten it. "You look like you've had a fright. One of the students try something on you again?"

"I need to know about Lo Boeshane," Ianto said. One of Kraf's eyestalks extended slightly.

"What about him? Capable cadet, not a favourite among his peers but generally regarded as bright and dependable. Doesn't press his trousers enough, plays a little loose with his interpretation of the honour code -- "

"How did he get here?" Ianto asked, interrupting him. Kraf blinked.

"He's a scholarship boy, I thought you knew."

"Do you know who sponsored him?"

Kraf's eyes bobbed in amusement. "That's a bit of a story. There's a rumour he might be an officer's indiscretion. One of the admirals brought him in, set up the admissions. There's a certain resemblance I chalk up to chance, but some of his classmates aren't so forgiving."

"Which Admiral?" Ianto said, holding his breath.

"Admiral Levy brought him here, same as he brought you. Why, has he been talking out of turn? If so, I _am_ comportment instructor -- "

"No -- no, thank you, Kraf, it was just curiosity," Ianto said hastily. "I appreciate the information."

"Ianto, if you're having trouble with the boy -- "

"No! I'll see you for breakfast. Sorry, I have..." Ianto gestured vaguely. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He closed down the connection and stood, trembling, until his legs wouldn't keep him upright and he staggered into a chair.

Jack had brought Lo Boeshane to this station, a boy so like him that people thought Lo was his son. Jack had brought Ianto here for safekeeping -- but was it his own safety, or the safety of Jack's younger self?

Jack was smarter than that, he had to be. He had to know that this kind of messing around in the timeline would cause nothing but grief. But wasn't that like Jack? Wanting to save people, wanting --

Wasn't that like Lo Boeshane? Wanting a home, someone to love fiercely and protect and die for, something to make the pain of a horrific life spent in battle go away. A quick little snatch of joy if he couldn't have more. All alone in the great big black stretches outside.

Goddamn Jack Harkness and his fucking around in time, Jack Harkness who thought he knew everything. He had known, he must have known that Ianto and Lo would find each other out, he must have put Ianto here on purpose and purposefully not told him. Don't tell the stupid twenty-first-century apes anything, tell them not to want to know, don't even bother to hide it all that well -- it was Gwen and Flat Holm all over again, except this time he was on Gwen's end of the stick.

He stood up again and practically punched the scroll screen, dialing the secure code Jack had programmed into his porterminal, the one marked _emergencies only_. When it connected, there was a young woman on the screen, in uniform.

"Central command," she said pleasantly. "Where can I direct your request?"

"I need to speak to Admiral Brian Levy," Ianto said.

"Admiral Levy is at the front. You'll have to make an appoint -- "

"I'm not making an appointment," Ianto said sharply. "Tell him Ianto Jones needs to speak to him. he'll take this call." _Or else._

"His ship is dark -- "

" _Put me through_ ," Ianto snarled. "Ianto Jones of the Torchwood Archive."

Her whole expression changed at that.

"Yes, sir, sorry sir," she said hastily. "Look, I can't promise he'll answer."

"He'll answer," Ianto said grimly. The screen went dark, buzzing slightly, and Ianto counted down from ten. On two, someone answered -- Jack, his hair mussed from sleeping, chest bare.

"Ianto," he mumbled, rubbing his head and yawning. "What -- "

"You bastard," Ianto heard himself say. He had meant to be calm, meant to be rational, but the words tumbled out. "You knew Lo Boeshane was here."

Jack was suddenly wide awake. _Aha, Jack, gotcha._

"I can explain -- "

"Can you?" Ianto demanded. "You put me down in an enclosed space station with -- with that boy -- "

"It was the safest place for you," Jack said.

"Bullshit, Jack! You knew he'd be here, you knew he'd -- find me, stumble across me, you knew!"

"Calm down," Jack said, holding up his hands.

"Calm down?" Ianto asked. "He's my _friend_ , Jack. He confides in me. Jesus, do you know what I did?"

Jack didn't reply, but his expression stopped Ianto mid-rant.

"Introduced him to jazz," Jack said finally. "Taught him about Ella Fitzgerald. Showed him how to find _Moon River_. Played Fats Waller for him. Ran out on him when he kissed you in the gun range."

Ianto stared at him.

"That's what happened tonight, isn't it?" Jack asked quietly. "Tonight Lo Boeshane kissed you in the gun range. The way we used to."

"You said you didn't remember," Ianto replied.

"I don't. Not everything. I didn't. Sometimes I do. I remember -- there was someone who was kind to me," Jack said.

"It's not fair, Jack. Not to him or me. It's dangerous. I've already changed time," Ianto tried.

"No, you haven't, because I remember this. This was set to happen, Ianto, it couldn't be changed. You are there for a reason."

"What reason?"

"I don't know."

"You won't tell," Ianto said sharply.

"Some things I won't tell. Some things I don't know. I won't tell you what happens next, if that's why you called me. If you just want to call me names, well, you're in good company, plenty of people want to do that," Jack said. Ianto noticed for the first time that he looked tired. Worn-down, like he had after Owen and Tosh.

"It's not right, Jack."

Jack laughed bitterly. "Since when has that mattered?"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"I can't tell you. I wish I could," Jack said. "Get some sleep. Pretend you don't know. Tell him everything? I can't tell you what to do. _That's_ dangerous."

"Send me home, Jack," Ianto pleaded. "I don't care about the scars, I don't care. Please send me home."

"I can't do that either."

"Please, Jack!"

"I'm sorry, Ianto," Jack said, and cut off the call before he could reply. Ianto swore and punched the wall, which hurt, so he swore again.

What, exactly, was he supposed to tell Lo?

_Sorry, you're a bit young; try it again in about two hundred years, and mind the Cyberman._

_Sure, have a go, someday down the line you'll be teaching me all this in the first place._

_Get the hell out of my library and don't come back._

_When you see the Doctor, run the other way._

_So that Admiral who enrolled you here? That's you. Yeah, someday you'll be immortal. Your life is going to suck. Sorry. Good news is, you do eventually get to have sex with me._

He covered his face with his hands and laughed.

He couldn't tell Lo everything. He obviously hadn't, so he couldn't. Couldn't just block the knowledge out, though, and he couldn't pretend that nothing had happened in the gun range.

But it would be cruel to send Lo away, and possibly even dangerous -- he was a damaged man, and he had few enough people who cared for him. As bitterly as Ianto had hated Jack after Lisa's death, if Jack hadn't relentlessly forced him to open his eyes, if he hadn't pushed through his own betrayal to find some kind of empathy for Ianto's loss, Ianto wouldn't have survived longer than a week. Of course, he wouldn't be in this mess now, but better this than dead.

Lo was only what Jack had once been. He wasn't Jack. Not yet. But growing closer every day -- to the Time Agency, to Torchwood. Humming jazz and seducing lovers with guns. Ianto wondered if Jack's fascination with the range was genuine or some sort of constant re-enactment, repeating over and over what had happened just now, trying to change the outcome of the past in all his future encounters.

_Don't flatter yourself, Jones_ , he thought.

What could he possibly do? Trust his instincts, perhaps, try to treat Lo as he had. But they had to clear the air about today, one way or another.

On the scroll screen, a little white sphere popped up in the corner. Message on MemoBase. He touched it and it expanded. From Lo, of course, because life was just not complicated enough.

_I'm sorry. It was rude of me. Please don't be angry._

Ianto stared at it for a while. If he hadn't known, what would he have done? If he didn't know now, what would he do? Something stupid, no doubt.

He took the porterminal out of its dock and replied. _My fault. Come to the library._

No reply; after a few minutes, Ianto walked back out into the library and waited by the door. Lo appeared like a shadow, slinking along shamefaced, and Ianto unlocked it briefly, locking it again after him.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Lo said, shoulders hunched, head bowed. Ianto took his hand silently and pulled him along, leading him to the back wall and the door to his quarters. Lo hesitated on the threshold, gave him a bewildered look, and stepped inside. Ianto could see curiosity overcome shame as he cast covert looks around the room. It was almost an audible thought: _This is where Mr. Jones lives._

"You don't have to do this to make me happy," Ianto said, tipping Lo's chin up. So strange, to have this much authority over Jack. Usually his control over Jack, when he had control, was more...subtle. "You don't have to do this to prove you like me, to make me like you. Do you understand, Lo?"

"That's not why," Lo said. For all his hesitation, he was sure of himself in this. "I wanted it. But I don't _need_ \-- you said you don't sleep with students. Which is a dumb rule, by the way," he burst out.

"This isn't my time," Ianto said. "I need order here. There have to be rules. Sometimes they're dumb ones. Sometimes maybe I should break them. I have something for you," he added impulsively, when Lo looked startled and hopeful. "Stay there."

If he was going to be stupid, he was going to be stupid in _style_.

"I've been holding this out," he said, tracking through his porterminal lists. "I -- wanted to see your face when you heard it."

"Heard what?" Lo asked, and Ianto pressed _play._

A flicker of noise, first, almost like an orchestra tuning, not long but long enough to catch Lo's attention; then the first beautiful rise of the clarinet, and the horns joining in. Lo's jaw dropped when the melody began, da-daah dah daa dah...

"Rhapsody in Blue," Ianto told him.

"Gershwin," Lo said, and Ianto's heart fell.

"You've heard -- "

"No, but it sounds like him," Lo said absently, looking up a little, as if the music was written at the tops of the walls. Just then the piano joined in and his hands twitched, fingers moving as if he wanted to be playing it. "All those beautiful little melodies..."

Ianto caught Lo's face in his hands and kissed him. Lo kissed back with that same precision of earlier, but more carefully -- hands on shoulders, not around his waist, taking nothing for granted. Ianto tugged at the buckle on his collar.

"Are you sure -- " Lo started, while the music rose around them.

"Oddly enough," Ianto answered, leaning in to whisper in his ear, "and considering everything, never more so."

Lo laughed at that and swayed with the music, hands busy now at Ianto's throat, pulling open the buttons on his tunic, trying to do everything at once. Ianto let him; he could afford to be the method to Lo's chaos.

"Your boyfriend," Lo said, kissing Ianto's now-bared throat, and Ianto froze. "Was he good to you?"

Ianto drew back, looking at him. In the background, a piano trilled.

"What do you mean?" he asked, honestly lost.

"Was he good to you?" Lo repeated. "He wasn't -- back then I know it was different, I thought maybe he didn't -- I'll be good to you," he said, and reached out to touch Ianto's chest again, hesitantly. Ianto could have laughed, except for the earnest look on Lo's face.

"It's all right," he said, pulling Lo close by the wrist. "He was good to me. I'm not new at this."

Lo nodded and kissed him again like he wanted to claim him, and in the background Gershwin played on. Ianto was faintly conscious of it, of the way Lo's breath seemed to stop sometimes, but he was busy trying to get them both out of the ridiculous clothing of The Future and trying to keep Lo's slightly uncoordinated groping from interfering with that goal. Lo didn't even seem to _care_ about getting their clothing off. He still had his tunic on and Ianto was still in his trousers when Lo backed him into a wall and held him there, face pressed against his throat, catching enough of the melody to hum along with it as he dug his hands into Ianto's trousers and pulled their bodies together.

"This isn't going to work if I can't get my trousers off," Ianto said, quite seriously, but Lo was caught up in the music, breath hitching -- oh, god --

Lo moaned, his whole body moving, hips thrusting, his cock rubbing roughly against Ianto's trousers. Ianto tried to slow him down and then gave up, pulling his face up for a kiss. Lo bit down hard on his lip and came all over his trousers with a grunt.

Ianto rested his forehead against Lo's. _You always did have a thing for uniforms_ , he thought, but didn't say.

"Good," Lo breathed, and Ianto raised an eyebrow. "Thank you, now I can -- " he reached for Ianto's clothing, shoving it down, shedding his own shirt much more quickly than he seemed to have been able to do before. "C'mere, c'mere," he urged, pulling Ianto towards the bed. In the background they'd hit the strings-section passage.

Lo pushed him onto the bed and nuzzled his collarbone, hands seemingly everywhere at once. It took Ianto a moment to realise what he'd done -- intentionally come first, got his own pleasure out of the way quickly and carelessly, because now Lo was concentrating on him. That laserlike focus, all for him, all for Ianto's skin and muscle and scars. It was almost embarrassing, and Ianto raised his hands to cover his face.

"No, don't," Lo said, pulling them away, rubbing his thumb down Ianto's cheek. "You're so handsome. You shouldn't."

"Twenty-first century modesty," Ianto said, and laughed. "Don't look too closely."

"Why not?" Lo asked, sounding amused as well. He bent and kissed the jut of Ianto's ribcage, light quick kisses that seemed to play along his nerves. "It's just a kiss," he said, and bent again to kiss the other side. "Tell me what you like."

"I -- it's not something you just say," Ianto fumbled, covering his face again. Lo licked up the side of his stomach and Ianto laughed, involuntary.

"Aha, ticklish," Lo said triumphantly, and licked again.

"No don't -- " Ianto reached down to stop him, but Lo ran a hand up his stomach and took his cock in his mouth at the same time. Ianto jerked and moaned.

"Relax," Lo said, very gentle, a little too gently really, but Ianto chose to ignore it. He gripped the blanket instead and concentrated on Lo's mouth, warm and tight around his cock. Lo's head bobbed and he began to hum -- to the music, oh, this was either some kind of dysfunction or the _best thing ever._ The horns rose to a crescendo and the cymbals crashed and --

Lo raised his head, one hand still holding Ianto's body down, and licked the side of his mouth. The room was silent.

"That was great," he said. Ianto laughed breathlessly.

"That song is nine minutes long," he said.

"Well, there's nothing wrong with speed," Lo told him, crawling up to lie next to him on the bed. Ianto tried not to see Jack's face in Lo's, but there it was, framed by Lo's slightly-curled hair -- even the pain always lurking in Jack's eyes was there, perhaps not so much of it but still some. Jack's slow post-coital smile, too.

Lo rested his head on Ianto's shoulder, snuffling against his skin happily.

"Is it quiet for you?" Ianto asked. Lo huffed out a breath, shifting a little.

"Yes," he said. "Here? Yes."

"That's good," Ianto said. "You should have peace, sometimes."

"It's not always awful," Lo told him. "Life's pretty good most of the time, you know."

He was still moving, and Ianto propped himself on one elbow -- Lo had a hand on his cock, his very hard cock, and was stroking it absently. He looked at Lo, who gave him a filthy grin.

"Don't do that," Ianto said, pulling his hand away.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me they don't allow _that_ in -- "

"That's not what I meant," Ianto replied. He slid his own hand down and took up where Lo left off. Lo looked at him, confusion and arousal crossing his face. "Let me do something for you."

"It's not about me," Lo answered, but he nuzzled Ianto's bicep and his hips pushed up into Ianto's hand.

"I'm sure that's not how we think in this century," Ianto told him, wondering if this actually _was_ some sort of problem. He thought back to Lo's very explicit stories about that boy in Cardiff -- which had all been about what Lo did for the boy, and not much about what the boy had done for Lo. "Aren't you worth something?" he asked. Lo whined high in his throat and clutched Ianto's arm.

"It's just -- easier if -- " he panted, fingers digging into Ianto's skin. "It's -- oh you bastard," he broke off, as Ianto slowed, stroking him leisurely, stopping to give him a gentle squeeze at the bottom of every downstroke. Jack had _loved_ that.

"What's easier?" Ianto asked in a whisper.

"Sometimes with people," Lo gasped, "it's hard to -- sometimes I can't -- I'm fucked up," he murmured. Ianto didn't stop. "Please just -- "

"Easy," Ianto told him. "We have time."

"That feels good," Lo moaned, slumping down a little. Ianto wasn't fooled.

"Sometimes with people...?" he asked.

"It's like they're not real," Lo said, looking up at Ianto. "They don't mean anything."

"But I am," Ianto told him. Lo nodded, then let his eyes roll up a little as Ianto sped up. "So this is all right, isn't it?"

"Yes -- I -- " Lo tipped his head back. "Ianto, that's -- there -- "

Ianto dragged his thumb across the head of Lo's cock on his upstroke, and Lo came silently, eyes closed, one hand gripping Ianto's wrist tightly. Ianto waited until he'd come down a little from the orgasm, then let him go, wiping his hand on the blanket. It'd wash. Sonic laundry, and all.

Lo exhaled slowly. "You weren't kidding."

"About what?" Ianto asked, settling down closer to him.

"You're not new at this," Lo said, and then he laughed. "You must think I'm an asshole."

"No, Lo," Ianto said. "No, I don't think that."

Lo turned on his side, facing him, tracing the lines of Ianto's face with his eyes. "It's not that I think I'm worthless," he said, after a moment. "I'm actually sort of a catch."

Ianto smiled.

"Chaplain and I talked about it some," Lo went on. "It's -- in war you depend on your mates. You trust them with your life. But you learn not to get too close. Here I don't have to trust anyone with my life, but I'm still keeping my distance. It's not really good for me, he says."

He was silent for a while, considering something, studying something Ianto couldn't see.

"How old were you when your first lover died?" Ianto asked. Lo focused back on him.

"His name was Gath. When I joined up, I left him on Boeshane. They were strafed when I was fifteen. Heavy casualties," Lo said, with a sort of offhand carelessness. "We used to sneak off from bathing and mess around. The rest of them died in the war."

Ianto propped himself on an elbow. "What, all of them?"

"I joined the guerillas, I didn't have time for civilians. The Flyers took the 43rd's flagship. A couple of us got out, not many. Beal -- my best friend -- died. My captain died. And I came here," Lo said, eyes closing. "It's easier to make someone happy and just go on. Like a gift. That way they don't belong to you, it doesn't hurt so much when they die."

Ianto bit his lip, because he knew that entering the Fleet, or the Time Agency, would mean a lifetime of watching people die. Worse, for Jack Harkness; endless lifetimes. And he wanted to tell him, _Lo, this doesn't have to be your life. You don't have to save everyone. You could be anything else. Something safe, somewhere the people you love don't die horribly in war._

But what if Lo took him at his word, left the Fleet, never joined the Time Agency? Time would spin loose.

"It's fucked up, I said it was fucked up," Lo said reproachfully. "Chaplain says nobody can fix me but myself and it's okay if sometimes I don't want to. You don't have to save me, I'm not asking you to."

"I wasn't planning on it," Ianto drawled.

Lo smiled at him, opening his eyes. "That's because you know," he said, pushing Ianto back and crawling up his body, kissing him. "Wherever you were, whatever you did, you learned -- what I know. The others don't understand."

"I wasn't a soldier," Ianto protested. Lo folded his arms on Ianto's chest, resting his chin on them.

"Can I ask you something?" Lo said.

"I think you're owed."

"Maybe," Lo said. "Why'd you run away tonight? Why'd you come back?"

God, how was he to answer that. Even _you reminded me of someone_ was dangerous.

"Twenty-first century jitters," he said finally. He'd known once how to lie to Jack; it seemed to work on Lo, who nodded. "Sex...where I come from, means something. Something about power, ownership. It isn't so simple as it is here."

Lo tilted his head. "If it were your time, would you have power or would I?"

Oh, Jack.

"I'm supposed to be in authority. I would. This would be seen as an abuse of my power," Ianto said.

"I don't feel abused," Lo remarked.

"Different times."

"Hm. Time." Lo yawned and closed his eyes again, apparently content to use Ianto as a pillow. "When I'm a Time Agent, if I went back to your time -- "

"You couldn't seduce your students," Ianto told him.

"Bet I could," Lo said, grinning sleepily.

"Shouldn't, then."

"Mmh," Lo heaved out a heavy breath and slipped almost visibly down into sleep. Ianto let his head fall back a little and listened to Lo's easy breathing until he slept as well.


	6. Chapter 6

They slept through dinner. When Lo woke, the clock display in the corner of the scroll screen said it was mid-evening, and Ianto was snoring softly. Lo eased himself to one side and rolled carefully off the bed, going to see what Ianto had in his kitchen. On the way he passed the bookshelf, and smiled to see the little car he'd given Ianto in pride of place there.

He hadn't expected skill or perception from someone of Ianto's time, not in a sexual way. Wrong on both counts -- perhaps the mysterious boyfriend, the one Lo itched to know more about but wouldn't dare ask, had been a good teacher. Or Ianto was a natural.

He had really thought the jazz-loving, dancing boyfriend must have put Ianto off men somehow. Ianto had gone to Steward so easily, but he'd turned down Haverson and hadn't even seemed to notice the handful of other men who'd shown an interest. To be fair he hadn't noticed most of the women, either, Lo supposed.

Ah, Ianto had all the latest superheat foods. Luxury items, compared to what you could get in the station store; Steward must get them for him from Earth. Lo unpackaged a box of Nevit stew and pulled the little tab. The top popped open and steam rose out.

He collected two sporks from a handy rack and walked back to the bed, tossing himself down on it with enough force to wake Ianto.

"I made dinner," Lo said, offering him the box. Ianto looked up at him, confused for a second -- Lo was probably the only person he'd shared a bed with here, except maybe Steward -- but his eyes cleared and he pushed himself up.

"Hard work," he remarked, and accepted one of the sporks. The last time Lo had eaten from a common dish had been on the 43rd's flagship, sharing looted rations from a burned-out husk of a Fleet wreckage with his mates. Ianto seemed to like the meat more than the vegetables, which had always been hard to come by in battle, so Lo nudged the meat over and went for the newtatoes. After a few minutes of silence he heard Ianto chuckle.

"What?" he asked, mouth full of newtato and gravy. That made Ianto chuckle again. "What?"

"First trip to the gun range went well," Ianto said, and broke down into helpless laughter. Lo stared at him for a moment and then the funny side of it washed over him.

"You're a very straight shooter," he said, only meaning to draw a rather immature link between guns and cocks, but he must have inadvertently said something amusing, because Ianto flopped back and laughed and laughed. He had an adorable, if slightly annoying, habit of covering his face with his hands. Maybe the nuskin embarrassed him. Lo kept eating, shoving tik and newtatoes into his mouth while Ianto was distracted.

Eventually Ianto sat up again and dug his spork into the food. He gave Lo a measuring look when he saw all the meat pushed to his side.

"I'm not trying to fix you," he said slowly, and Lo braced for Ianto to try and fix him. "Don't -- don't do that."

"What now?" Lo asked.

"Don't close off. Listen to me," Ianto said. Lo felt his face redden. Not many people saw through him when he shut down. "People die. People leave. After this year, I won't be at Quantico. People are always leaving. You should love them anyway."

"Why?" Lo asked, hating the petulance in his own voice.

Ianto shrugged. "I've been told it's worth it, by someone in a position to know."

"I think that's bullshit."

"It's your right to think that. Doesn't mean it really is. No, really, Lo," Ianto said. "I was taken away from -- everyone, my friends, my sister, my boyfriend."

"Didn't know you had a sister," Lo said.

"Yep. Sister, niece and nephew, rubbish brother-in-law," Ianto replied with a small smile. "I had to leave my boyfriend. I miss him."

"And you'd rather have had them and lost them than never have had them at all, right?" Lo asked tiredly.

"I haven't a choice. They made me who I am. Maybe sometimes I would rather not have had -- him, he never made life easy, leaving him certainly didn't make life easy."

"So?"

"So," Ianto said, and leaned forward to kiss him. Lo almost jerked back; if Ianto was leaving, best not to get too close -- but he wanted this badly. Ianto was a good kisser. "So, if I hadn't had them, I would have just...stayed as I was. A boy. Petulant, sulky, ignorant. If Lisa -- " he stopped, sharply.

"Lisa?" Lo asked.

"A woman I -- loved. Too much. If I hadn't -- if she hadn't died, I wouldn't understand your loss. If I hadn't had her and lost her, I wouldn't have you. Understand?"

Lo shook his head. "No."

"It's not about knowing you had someone," Ianto said, an odd urgency in his eyes. "It's the way things are, that's all. If you never feel anything then you never learn anything and you'll be a child the rest of your life, Lo. A very sad, very hurt child who can pilot a shuttle and shoot a light-carrier, but still a child."

"I'm not a child," Lo said, vaguely insulted.

"Prove it," Ianto said. Lo gave him a slow smile and ran a hand down Ianto's chest, but Ianto caught it sharply -- he could move faster than one would think -- and held it there. "Know that you might lose them. Will lose them, given the life you've chosen. Love them anyway."

"It's not that easy."

"It really is," Ianto said. "Sometimes it's the only way to keep going."

"I don't have to listen to you," Lo said. Ianto let his wrist go, slowly.

"No, you don't," he agreed. He picked up the food box and leaned back off the bed, setting it on the floor. Lo saw his opportunity and took it, running his fingernails down Ianto's back. Ianto stilled, and Lo cupped his ass playfully.

"I have to get back to quarters before lights-out," he said. "Classes tomorrow. Give me a goodbye kiss?"

"Kiss?" Ianto asked. His voice was low and almost wary.

"Well, to start with," Lo allowed. Ianto turned back to face him, pulling him forward a little.

When he was on Boeshane, back before the Flyers -- during the Flyers, he could hardly remember _before_ them -- sex had been about running off with a friend and figuring out how it all went together in a more concrete way than the school lessons, catching glimpses of older kids or someone else's parents through an open window in the summer. Covert glances at girls and boys while you bathed. Parents warning you that you might as well have your fun now because in another few years you'd have a lot of schooling and exams to get into upper school or the Fleet or whatever you wanted to do, and would you have time then?

No exams for Lo. If his mother hadn't been killed he might have stuck around, and if he'd survived the strafing then right about now he'd be taking his exams for upper school. Instead, there'd been the 43rd, rustbuckets and routine, news of Gath's death among so many others on Boeshane, desperate fucks because you'd just nearly died or someone else had, quick moments snatched between missions. Your best friend and most dependable mate clinging and rutting and moaning with you in the pilot's chair and then climbing off and an hour later you were called out to fight and --

And then, in the Flyer prison, hearing Beal die.

So now he was here, instead of sitting exams on Boeshane to go to some agricultural unit or humanities house, here learning the Glorious Military Tradition Of Humanity that really he could give a shit about except that it would get him to the Time Agency. Here, with Ianto Jones, not quite able to ask, not quite able to wish this much for himself anymore.

Ianto had one leg drawn up against Lo's hip, and sometimes when they thrust together Lo's cock brushed the tender inside of his thigh. Lo swallowed and wondered if he could ask --

Perhaps not that, but just. If he could somehow.

"Got any slick?" he asked. Ianto, who wasn't having the most coherent moment ever, pushed himself up on his elbows and looked stricken. "You really are totally unprepared for this century," Lo told him.

"Dresser," Ianto said. Lo rolled off and rummaged in the top drawer -- some things never changed -- and came up with a bottle of lotion, mostly used for nuskin scarring. He sniffed it, tested it on his fingers, and shrugged. It'd do. Ianto rolled over onto his knees and drew his legs up again, and Lo smiled.

He wanted it fast but Ianto apparently didn't; every time he tried Ianto would go still, until he finally gave in and slowed down. It became a strange languorous thing, time stretching out into nothing, and something began to fracture inside him. It had been so long since he'd been able to be slow. How had he forgotten? The night before he and Beal left, he'd spent it with Gath in a proper bed instead of the sand dunes or down by the rocks at the shoreline. Slow, because it was his very last time before the wide starry expanse beckoned. He and Beal were going, and Gath wouldn't go, but Gath would wait for him, he'd said as much. Now Gath was dead because he'd waited, and Beal was dead because he hadn't, and Lo -- 

It crumbled, it broke; he bit down on Ianto's shoulder and whispered _Gath_ and Ianto jerked and said _Jack_ and both call and answer were pretty messed up even by fifty-first century standards. He stilled.

"Ianto," he said steadily, because Ianto didn't deserve to carry all of Lo's memories of Boeshane.

"Lo," Ianto answered, turning for a twisting, off-centre kiss. Lo held onto his shoulder tightly and thrust and came. Ianto shuddered under him.

"Thank you," he said in Ianto's ear, sliding away. Ianto rolled over onto his back and looked at him.

"You have lights-out," he reminded him gently. Lo stroked his chest, nodded, and got up to dress. Ianto watched him in the dim light, lifted his head for an _actual_ kiss goodbye, and let him find his own way out.

Well, he was older than Lo, and one couldn't expect him to bounce back quite so quickly.

Lo found himself humming Moon River as he made his way hastily back to his quarters, for a bath and a proper sleep before classes the next day.

***

Ianto dreamed about Jack that night, which was hardly surprising. Jack in the dark, hair black, face in shadow, all bright blue eyes. This was memory, he thought, bracing himself to relive it.

"I thought this was what you wanted," Jack said. He seemed more confused than hurt.

"Are you -- is all this because you think I wanted it?" Ianto heard himself ask, no more in control of this memory than he had been the first time around.

"No, I want it," Jack told him, sitting up in bed. Ianto's bed. Jack, real, returned from his stupid Doctor for a month now and acting really -- really weird. "But if you don't -- "

"Maybe I never did," Ianto said. God, he had been bitter. "Maybe I just wanted a warm body. Maybe I wanted to forget her."

"I don't believe that," Jack said.

"Believe what you please," Ianto answered, rebellious and angry. He did want this, he wanted Jack -- he wanted dinner with Jack and movies and sex in his bed like a real couple, but who were they trying to fool? Jack knew that Ianto would die and Jack wouldn't, and if Ianto lived long enough Jack would probably get tired of him.

"Are you worried I'm going away again?" Jack asked. God, this had been so much easier when they were just fucking. "I'm not."

"You can't promise that. If the Doctor beckons, you go running. It's all right, Jack, I know that now."

Jack shook his head. "He did. He said I could stay with him. I told him no."

"Good for you."

"Ianto -- "

"Maybe Lisa was it. This is no kind of life, Jack, this is just -- Torchwood. I get that. I don't know why I try to make it anything more -- "

"There's me," Jack said, and this time he was hurt. Ianto felt himself roll over, turning his back on Jack's shadowed profile. "So I'm not worth it?"

"Worth what?" Ianto asked.

"The risk. I think it's worth it. A chance to be happy. To have someone. It's what I want. I thought you did too."

Ianto was silent long enough that he hoped Jack would just slide down in bed and fall asleep. He should never have even brought it up, should never have told Jack he was being weird.

"People come and go," Jack said, and Ianto cringed. "We lose them, that's reality. You have to know that and love them anyway."

"Unfair," Ianto muttered.

"Yeah," Jack said, and there was enough pain and regret in his voice that Ianto rolled over, if only to try and decipher what Jack meant. "I know you'll die. Gwen will die, Owen and Tosh will die and everyone who comes after them, and I won't. The only way to go on is to love people anyway and take the hit when it comes. Otherwise it's pointless."

He had looked -- was looking -- down at Ianto. Ianto realised that he was being a child. He could have Jack for his whole life, could try anyway, and Jack would only have him for a little part of his. _That_ was unfair.

Jack gave him a hopeful smile.

Ianto woke muttering the words -- _It_ is _what I want._

His quarters were full of the mess of the previous night -- stains on his blankets, the dinner-box and sporks on the floor, his clothing scattered everywhere, and the bottle of scar lotion discarded on the nightstand. He tidied up, shoving his clothing and the blanket into the washer to be cleaned while he disposed of the dinner box and set the sporks aside.

His skin smelled like Lo.

He washed and shaved, trying not to think too much about Lo and about what was, yes, definitely a stupid thing to have done. On the other hand, it was only sex. He was sure Lo would see it that way. Great sex, mind, great and kind of messed-up sex, but just sex at the end of the day.

He did allow himself a certain smug satisfaction. Jack had a weakness for him at any age, apparently, which did wonders for the sexual self-esteem. If he ever saw that bastard Admiral Brian-Jack-Harkness-Levy again he was going to rub his nose in this.

"Good morning!" Blithe called, when he emerged carrying two cups of coffee. She looked up from her porterminal and accepted one gratefully. "How did shooting go?"

"Boeshane is very thorough," Ianto said, and gestured at her porterminal. "Work already?"

"Yep, mid-term break is impending and the instructors have travel plans. No rest for the wicked," she replied, and then looked up at him. "Got any yourself?"

"Not as yet," Ianto said serenely. He hadn't thought about it. Two weeks -- the Skins and Twos would mostly be going home to see their families, the upperclassmen probably holidaying on Earth. It might be nice to stay here in the quiet. Or go fuck himself stupid for two weeks with Blithe or Lo or -- he could pick someone up on Earth, even, if he felt like it. Maybe multiple someones.

Staggering thought, really. And somewhat exhausting.

"I had a call last night from Fleet Central Command," Blithe remarked casually. Ianto stiffened. "She said she wasn't aware you worked for the Torchwood Archive, and was a little worried about conflict of interest."

"I'd almost forgotten about them," Ianto said, which was close to true. Shut down at every turn, he'd given up in frustration.

"I told her it was very unlikely, but we'd sort it out internally," Blithe prodded.

"I needed to talk to someone and didn't have time to play games," Ianto said.

"You don't want to go throwing Torchwood's authority around without the firepower to back it up, Ianto. You could get in real trouble."

Ianto nodded. "It was a one-time desperate act. I promise, never again."

"Good. So," she added with a smile, hovering her hand over her touchscreen. "Where can I send you for break? Want me to do some research?"

"Was that -- " Ianto paused to sip his coffee, " -- a subtle way of saying you won't be available?"

"You're wonderful, Ianto, but it's a real vacation. I don't want to take my work home with me," she said. "Are you much fussed?"

He shook his head, smiling. "I can understand that. I think I might go back to Earth. See if Boeshane and Myles will be going back, hitch a ride, see something new."

"Sounds like fun," she said, gulping the last of her coffee. "Sorry I can't stay, but duty calls. Well. Kraf calls."

"Much the same thing," Ianto told her.

"It does seem that way. See you later," she said, and kissed his cheek, patting his face. "Lovely boy. Think about where you want to go!" she added over her shoulder, as she left.

Ianto expected that word of him and Lo would be all over the station by lunchtime. Sex might have lost some of its mystery, but people still loved to talk about who was having it with whom. He knew Lo could keep a secret, but he also knew Lo wasn't likely to think there was a reason to. And really -- was there? Why should he be bothered that other people might know? Lo was above the age of consent even in his own time, and there weren't any taboos on sex with students. At worse, he supposed, Haverson might feel hurt that Ianto hadn't broken the rule for him.

For all of that, he didn't really sense any gossip in the air, see anyone whispering behind their hands or giving him sly looks. Kraf didn't say anything about it at lunch, and Kraf definitely would have.

Lo caught up to him in the hallway, as he was walking back to the library. Ianto stepped aside into an empty corridor and Lo followed, leaning against the wall.

"Can I see you this afternoon?" Lo asked, excited. "Can we do it again?"

"Erm." Ianto stared at him. "Well, yes."

"Enthusiastic," Lo drawled.

"Sorry, caught by surprise," Ianto said. "Yes, we can. Lo..."

"Yeah?" Lo asked.

"Have you mentioned it to anyone?"

Lo looked at him and frowned. "Not especially. Should I have?"

"It's up to you, I suppose."

"But you're not."

"Well, no, not so much," Ianto admitted.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Lo asked, face falling.

"God, no, that's not it -- " Ianto saw Lo crack a grin. _Oh, Jack, how little you have changed_. "You're teasing me."

"Just a little," Lo said. "We studied conceptions of privacy in the third millennium in history. I know what this is about."

Ianto flooded with an odd relief. "So you understand."

"Sure. I mean I think it's weird, but whatever." Lo shrugged. "It's nice, having a secret. This kind, anyway. And I can keep a secret."

He leaned forward and kissed Ianto gently.

"I'll come by the library. We'll have fun," he promised.

"Oh good," Ianto murmured, as Lo walked away, rejoining a group of Cadets in the main hallway. "Fun."

Fun turned out to be Lo arriving half an hour before the library closed, sitting in his customary seat, and flashing Ianto intense looks over the edge of his porterminal. It was actually rather funny. The energy and imagination of youth, Ianto thought, and then he thought about how very old that made him feel. He was twenty six. He was supposed to still _be_ a melodramatic kid.

When he sounded the tone for the library to close, the last remaining stragglers left without a glance behind them -- and Lo stayed right where he was as Ianto dimmed the library down, locked the door, and closed the terminals at the desk. When Ianto was finished, he looked up to see Lo sitting casually, porterminal laid aside, collar already off.

"Done?" he asked, into the quiet of the empty library.

"Done," Ianto agreed. Lo stood up.

"Good. Come here," Lo said, and took him by the hand and led him into his own bloody quarters. Ianto wondered if he actually had the guts to kiss Lo's hand or the charisma to pull it off. Probably not.

"Is it wrong to ask what you like?" Lo asked, pulling him in close to kiss him. Ianto felt an arm snake around his waist. "In your time. Wasn't it done? I mean," he added, around another kiss, "how else would you know what someone wanted?"

"Very inefficient, I agree," Ianto said, cupping Lo's jaw, sliding his fingers through Lo's dark brown hair. Jack's had been lighter -- maybe age, maybe chemicals in the water, maybe Jack was vain and had it dyed. "It's difficult to talk about plainly."

"I'll have to guess," Lo told him. "Do you mind?"

Lo's hands were pulling his tunic out of its neat tucks, sliding under his trousers at the back.

"No," Ianto said. "I don't mind."

Lo turned out to be quite a good guesser; perhaps he was just imaginative, but he quickly found out what made Ianto writhe beneath him, what he liked to hear and feel and see. He wasn't as intuitive as Jack, but Jack had a hundred and fifty years on Lo Boeshane, and --

He was really going to have to stop comparing them, Ianto thought, but that thought -- like the memories of Jack's seemingly telepathic knowledge of the sensitive spots, the places Ianto hadn't even been aware could _be_ erogenous -- faded quickly. Lo's voice in his ear, the way his smile curled with smug satisfaction as Ianto came, the press of his body...

Lo curled up against Ianto's side while he caught his breath, watching with open appreciation until Ianto swallowed and turned to look at him.

"Can I tell you what I like?" Lo asked softly. "Is that easier than you saying it? Would it embarrass you?"

"No," Ianto said. "That's all right."

He expected some wild-spun fantasy, to be honest, but should have known better. Lo brushed closer and touched his arm.

"Will you do this again?" he asked, curling his hand around Ianto's and bringing it down to his cock. "I liked that. I like feeling your skin when you do that."

Ianto raised an eyebrow. Lo raised one back, releasing Ianto's hand and sliding his own up Ianto's arm appreciatively, as if it were something special. He kissed Ianto's shoulder.

Ianto leaned up a little for better leverage and watched Lo's face flush with pleasure, watched the slow spiral from mischief to indulgence to loss of control. In the grand pantheon of sexual acts (lately he'd had to knock out a few walls and install extensions just to hold everything) he'd never considered hand-jobs to be particularly special, but then Lo was unique. And he seemed genuinely pleased with it all, watching Ianto afterwards with sleepy eyes, a relaxed grin on his face.

"We should go to dinner," Ianto said finally. Lo yawned.

"Yeah, probably," he agreed. "I have study group tonight."

"History?"

"No," Lo groaned. "Command tactics. We're studying the intersection of personal morality and public duty. It's even more boring than it sounds."

"Personal morality, eh?" Ianto asked.

"I score very low on the standardised ethics scale," Lo said with a laugh. "But then so did most great military commanders of the last eight thousand years. I have a thesis about it."

"Oh?"

"Minimal adherence to culturally established ethics indicates nonconformist personality types who trend towards unorthodox high-success-percentile solutions due to low moral socialisation," Lo said.

Ianto gave him a blank look.

"People who don't act normal for the sake of acting normal have fewer inhibitions about creative problem-solving," Lo said.

"Oh," Ianto said. "I suppose it's something to be going on with."

"It also means most famous tacticians, if they'd tried that bullshit out at school, would have been expelled," Lo continued, rolling on his back and putting his arms over his head to stretch lazily. "And it's really dull."

"I should think you wouldn't mind a little dullness in your life," Ianto pointed out. Lo nodded.

"Sometimes. On the bad days. On the good days, I get restless."

"Good day today?" Ianto asked. Lo sat up, bent down to kiss him, and then slid off the bed.

"Good day today," he agreed, beginning to dress. "Come on, dinner won't wait. I'm starving."

***

Two days before leave was scheduled to begin, about a week after Ianto had let Lo into his quarters for the first time (and every day after that, nearly; missing lunch that one day was totally worth it), a general assembly was called in the dining hall. Lo suspected it was about their leave, probably some kind of warning to behave and represent Quantico with pride; he expected Kraf would give an address, but there was no podium set up. The enormous scroll screen that took up one wall of the room was lit, though, so perhaps they were getting a broadcast.

Most of the students lounged against the long dining tables or joked with each other in small groups, half a dozen Cadets calling him over to where Myles and a Senior Cadet were playing a piloting game on their porterminals. Lo watched with half an eye, monitoring the door and the instructors who were filing in. Ianto was there too, and he gave him a shy wave; Ianto waved back and continued guiding Steward to the rear of the room, where it looked like Kraf had saved them seats.

When the klaxon sounded, the students looked up as one, and a thin white line appeared on the scroll screen as it connected. The line expanded to reveal the Fleet insignia (faint cheers) and text: _GALACTIC NETWORK NEWS_.

Then a familiar face appeared, and Lo was all attention. Admiral Levy, his secret patron, his idol, on the screen. He looked exhausted, huge dark streaks under his eyes and more grey in his hair than the last time Lo had seen him. His uniform was immaculate, though, and when he received some off-camera cue, he smiled charmingly.

"This broadcast is being simultaneously fed to all Fleet ships, local civilian broadcasting servers, and on all known commercial frequencies," he said. Text ran across the bottom of the screen: _Fleet Admiral Brian Levy Fleet Admiral Brian Levy Fleet Admiral Brian Levy --_

Myles elbowed him. Lo elbowed her back without looking.

"It is my pleasure to announce that five hours ago, early in the morning Fleet Standard Local time, the Second Battalion stationed outside the Cineve system ended the Cineve Blockade," he said. There were soft gasps from the students, most of whom followed the war with keen interest. As far as Lo knew, Cineve was the last system hit by the Flyers, their final stronghold, boasting three lush supply planets and five populated colony planets, at least two of which had been strafed.

"The Second Battalion, aided by the 29th Guerilla Battalion, has broken the Flyer line on the Cineve system. Initial scouts report that all Flyer ships have been destroyed. The Flyer supply chain is down, and the last full force of Flyer ships has been defeated."

Lo thought the roar in his ears was his own, until he realised that fifteen hundred Quantico students were cheering.

"Humanity has won the war," Levy said, barely audible over the shouts. "The Flyer invasion of our colonies has failed. We expect some mop-up efforts over the next few days, but without the supply line from Cineve, the remaining Flyer forces are already scattered and weakening. Our war -- is -- over," he said, and there was triumph in his eyes.

Lo couldn't breathe. Around him, hushed silence fell as Levy bowed his head.

"Our colonies are safe," he said. He looked up again. "Our soldiers are coming home."

Lo heard, in the perfect still silence, a soft broken noise, and was shocked to find he'd made it. Faces turned to him, like a wave spreading out across the room. He choked again, drew in a sharp breath, and began to weep.

Myles' arm went around his shoulders, and then there were more, the Cadets closing ranks around him. He couldn't stand on his own, but they were too close and too many for him to fall. They held him up as he cried for Boeshane and the 43rd, for Cineve and New Geneva and a dozen other colony systems for whom the announcement was already too late.

On the scroll screen Levy was talking about honour and human ingenuity, and he said something about the bravery of the Guerilla fighters and of spies who had risked their lives to provide war-winning intelligence. That was Lo, that was a coded message to him and him only, but Lo couldn't think over the murmured reassurances of the cadets, the hands taking his or rubbing his back or just reaching out to touch him, because he meant the war to them -- the war their brothers and sisters had won at high cost. The one that meant he had no home to go to anymore. 

He was turned and pressed against a warm body, and found that it was Ianto, who must have pushed through the crowd from the back to get to him. He buried his face in Ianto's shoulder, and the hands began to withdraw a little. The sound of Levy's voice stopped; the briefing must be over.

Somewhere in the distance a voice called for champagne; others were singing the Fleet anthem, pretty rhymes about glory and death that most of them knew nothing about. Lo clung to Ianto, let himself be pulled gently towards the door.

Outside in the hall, the sound was dulled and the air was cooler. Ianto leaned him against the wall and helped him slide down it to sit with his legs against his chest, still unable to control his tears. After a second, Ianto joined him, back to the wall, and pulled his head over to rest on his shoulder.

He didn't talk, didn't even try to tell Lo it was okay; just sat there with him, while the singing in the dining hall got louder and the metal floor leeched cold into Lo's ass uncomfortably. Stupid to think about it at a time like this, but he couldn't help it.

When the tears finally stopped, Ianto drew in a breath. "Is your arse cold?"

Lo choked on a laugh. "Yeah."

"You could go back inside," Ianto said. "They'd make you a local hero."

"I am the war," Lo answered, tipping his head back to look up at the ceiling. "I always will be."

Ianto was silent.

"Sometimes I think about taking leave, going down to someplace with a lot of water, and dropping off a bridge," Lo said. Ianto's arm tightened fractionally around his shoulders. "Or maybe just blowing an airlock while I'm inside it, that'd be faster."

"What stops you?" Ianto asked softly.

Lo shrugged. "Fleet's spending money on me. I have a scholarship to the Time Agency waiting for me. I have promises I have to keep."

"Miles to go before you sleep," Ianto murmured.

"I'd like to sleep," Lo said, wiping his face. Ianto offered him a bit of fabric from his pocket. A handkerchief; men and women carried them in his time. And earlier, back in the forties, with beautiful music. He pressed it against his nose, rubbing snot away. He was shaking, he realised.

"Nobody's having classes today," Ianto said.

"Can I stay with you?" Lo asked. Ianto nodded and kissed the crown of his head, then helped him to his feet. After that he remembered only unclear moments -- their reflection in the glass doors of the library, the click as the lights came on in Ianto's quarters, a startled moment when Ianto's hands were at his throat, but only to pull the collar off. The cold shock of Ianto's sheets on his bare skin, and then Ianto's voice in the background, talking not to him but to someone else -- a glimpse of Chaplain on the scroll screen.

_"...my quarters."_

_"Should I come and speak to -- "_

_"With all due respect, Chaplain, I think he wants to sleep off the war."_

Lo wondered where his porterminal was. He wanted Cole Porter.

Ianto came to sit on the bed, bending to take off his own boots, undoing his collar. When he was down to shirtsleeves he turned to Lo and smiled.

"You can sleep as long as you like," he said. "I'll be here. Nobody will bother you."

"Thank you," Lo said. "Can I have my porterminal?"

Ianto nodded and fetched it from his crumpled trousers on the floor. Lo took it, brought up his playlist, and put the music on -- softly, so it wouldn't bother Ianto. He pressed it tightly to his chest and closed his eyes, sinking into deep, dreamless sleep.

He woke briefly, at some point, and smelled food. His porterminal, still tucked up against his body, had switched off. He could hear Myles in the other room, speaking to Ianto.

_"...class tomorrow?"_

_"I think so. He just needs rest. I don't think anyone realised how much the war was still with him."_

_"Nobody's going to get anything done, anyway. Not after this, plus with break so soon. If he doesn't -- "_

_"I'll talk to Chaplain. Classes might be the best thing. Routine."_

Lo felt hungry, but in a distant sort of way; more the knowledge that he should eat than any desire to. He felt he could stay here forever, wrapped in blankets, not doing anything. If he could forget the responsibility Levy had laid on him, his duty to find Gray, the debt he already owed the Fleet, he could just stay here, warm and safe. He drifted off again just as Myles said, _"Do you think it's true, about him and the Admiral?"_

When he came up again, he was definitely hungry, which was almost a relief. He heard Ianto before he even opened his eyes.

"...if you're all right."

To his shock, the voice he heard in reply was Admiral Levy's. "Well, this is turnabout."

"As strange as it might seem, I do still care about you," Ianto said. Lo opened his eyes. Ianto was standing there, casually having a conversation with the Admiral of the Fleet on his scroll screen.

"I'm fine."

"You look tired."

"I am tired. I just helped win a war, Ianto. I'm not having a breakdown. Believe me, as soon as I get demobilisation underway, I'm going to take a long, long vacation."

"Yes. That sounds like you," Ianto said, his voice dry.

"Why this sudden concern? You knew I was at the front."

Lo saw Ianto shake his head. "Because Lo Boeshane began crying and couldn't stop when he saw your newscast. And he's been asleep for almost twenty hours."

"I'm not so sensitive," Admiral Levy said, and Lo heard regret in his voice. "I've seen so many wars, Ianto."

"You're always war," Ianto said.

"That's poetic."

"From the mouths of babes," Ianto said. Lo watched, curious. He sensed there was a conversation going on below the level of words that he couldn't decode. Admiral Levy snorted a laugh.

"Well, good for me."

"You know," Ianto said, "I think I know why I'm here now."

"Oh?" Admiral Levy said.

"I think I'm here for him. To save him. Someone has to."

Admiral Levy smiled a very tired, very old smile. "Perhaps. Ianto, I have a thousand things to do before I sleep, and it's dangerous for us to talk. Keep your head down and -- "

"I'll take care of him," Ianto said.

"Yes. I know you will."

Even in the relative dim of Ianto's quarters, everything seemed so bright it hurt his eyes, and Lo closed them again. A dream; probably just a dream. Admiral Levy was his hero, Ianto was a lover; natural to dream about them, and he'd seen the Admiral so recently, in the dining hall, when he said words that made almost no sense.

Lo wasn't sure he understood how the universe worked without the war.

He had to pee.

He opened his eyes again and Ianto was seated next to the bed, working on something on his porterminal; clearly, yes, it had been a dream. Lo pushed back the blankets, and Ianto looked up.

"Hi," he said gently.

"What time is it?" Lo asked.

"About oh-six-hundred," Ianto said. "Hungry?"

Lo nodded and climbed out of the bed, stumbling towards the bathroom. He heard Ianto moving around in the other room, and when he emerged again there were clean clothes laid out on the bed. He put on the underwear and the shirt, left it unbuttoned, and wandered into the kitchen.

"Here," Ianto said, when he saw him. He passed him a cup full of water. "Drink this. I was starting to worry you'd dehydrate. Much longer and I'd have woken you myself."

Lo drank obediently, the water washing the hot, stale taste from his mouth. Ianto pressed a banana into his hand. "Sit."

He walked to the table, where the remains of the meal Ianto had eaten with Myles were pushed to one side. The banana tasted like the best food he'd had in weeks.

"There's still time to go to class today if you like," Ianto continued, pulling a packet out of the heater and handling it carefully. When he opened it, the smell of real, honest-to-goodness bacon from real quadrupigs filled the room.

"I should," Lo said, eyeing the packet as Ianto set it on the table. He shoved the rest of the banana into his mouth and reached for the bacon.

"I think you might take the day, and no one would think less of you," Ianto told him.

"Maybe. Still, can't skive in war," Lo said around the mouthful of banana.

"The war's over, Lo," Ianto reminded him.

Lo swallowed. "I'm still a military cadet. There'll probably be another one someday. Anyway, if you go to pieces in battle you have to pick yourself up and keep going, or they ship you off. I'm not getting shipped off now."

"You're seventeen. They don't punish seventeen-year-olds for having battle fatigue."

"Stop telling me I'm a child," Lo said, more sharply than he intended. Ianto held his hands up in innocence.

"Sorry. I know you're not."

"Okay." Lo stuffed a few more pieces of bacon in his mouth. Ianto watched him with a faint smile. "What now?" he asked around the food.

"Nothing. Actually, have you made plans for your leave yet?"

Lo shook his head. "I thought I'd go down to Earth, find a base, run around. Why?"

Ianto glanced away. "Earth is...celebrating would be a mild word for it."

The food went dry in Lo's mouth. "Oh. Well, if you wanted me to take you and Steward down, maybe I'll come back and stay on the station," he said cautiously.

"Or we could go somewhere," Ianto suggested. It was quiet, almost shy. Lo swallowed and picked at another piece of bacon casually.

"You and me and Steward?"

"No, just you and me," Ianto answered.

"For two weeks?"

"If you wanted," Ianto still wasn't quite looking at him. Maybe this was some twenty-first century thing. "Just a thought."

"Where would we go?"

"I don't know," Ianto said. There was an odd wistful quality to his voice. "Somewhere quiet. Somewhere by the sea, maybe."

Lo thought of the beaches on Boeshane, the beach at the edge of Cardiff. "If we don't go to Earth, that means leaving the system. Two, three days' flight."

"Got a place in mind?" Ianto asked.

"Next system over is mostly agricultural. Not many tourists. Bound to be some seaside somewhere," Lo said. His mind felt remarkably clear. Moving, reacting, thinking, all still felt difficult, as if he could simply give up and stop, but when he did try, the words came easily. He felt -- smarter, strangely, than he had.

"I'll ask Blithe to do some research," Ianto said.

"We can run around naked on the beach," Lo suggested, grinning.

"I'm not sure I can go quite that far," Ianto replied, but he grinned back. "You run around naked as much as you please."

"Well, then I will." Lo shoved the last of the bacon in his mouth. "I think I'm going to class. I feel all right."

Ianto nodded. "If you stop feeling all right -- "

"I'll come back," Lo assured him. "Myles'll be keeping an eye on me, I'm sure."

"Everyone in the station today will be keeping an eye on you," Ianto told him.

"Let them," Lo said. "I am the war. The bad and the good both. After all, we did win," he added, and went to get dressed while Ianto cleared away the boxes and dishes on the table.


	7. Chapter 7

Blithe looked gleeful when Ianto asked her to find him somewhere on the seaside for him to rent for the two weeks of leave.

"You're going off with Boeshane, aren't you?" she asked. "He likes beaches. That'll be good for him. Plus he's gorgeous. You and Boeshane, hmm." Her eyes glazed over a little.

"Seaside," Ianto reminded her. She shook herself out of her little daydream as he continued. "Lo said there were some agricultural planets a system over."

"Well, it's short notice, but agritourism is on the decline, shouldn't be hard to find you something. City or country?"

"Country," Ianto said firmly, thinking about Lo's ideas on nudity and beaches. Blithe's fingers danced over her porterminal.

"Yep, couple of leads. Give me a few hours and I'll memo you the coordinates. Booking a flight, or is Lo flying?"

"I don't know." Ianto thought about it, couldn't really decide. He had the money for the trip, no doubt; his salary was generous and he spent very little of it. On the other hand, Lo might prefer privacy.

"I'll ask him," she said, patting his hand as she turned to go.

"No pumping him about us," he called after her.

"Wouldn't dream of it!" she called back, which of course meant she was going to ask Lo everything, and Lo would probably tell her in graphic detail. Well, Lo would enjoy that, and it wasn't as if he and Blithe hadn't been reasonably avant-garde in Cardiff.

He wondered how people kept up this kind of thing in this century. It was amazing everyone wasn't absolutely knackered.

There was a strange atmosphere on the station, in those final two days; a mixture of elation that humanity had conquered what had once seemed an insurmountable foe, and a sense of loss, the subtle pervasive feeling that finally it was permissible to mourn the dead. Students smiled more but spoke less, and joyful reports that someone's brother or mother or lover was coming home were tempered with respect for those whose loved ones never would. Someone stole flowers from the station's garden and left them in front of the plaque to the fallen that stood just outside Admiral Cullen's office door. One of the instructors proudly showed off photographs of his daughter, who had been a wing captain at the Cineve Blockade and would be home in a matter of weeks, and just as proudly displayed a holo of his wife, who had died in the Boe sector scrums of two years earlier.

Even Lo seemed more cheerful than usual, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Ianto had fretted about him, but if he was faking his smiles he was doing a good job of it, and he came into the library at the end of the day bursting to tell Ianto a dirty story about how he and Myles had made out in the bath. Lo had a bizarre passion for bathtubs that Ianto found baffling. He was certain Jack had never been so fascinated by them.

"Are you packed?" Lo asked eagerly, all but bouncing on his toes. "What are you bringing?"

"Not much," Ianto said. "Clothing -- " Lo snorted. " -- a book, my porterminal. Why, should I bring something else?"

"Wait till you see what I got off the engineering students," Lo said, leaning in conspiratorially. Ianto gave him an alarmed look. "It's okay, you'll love it. I've loaded my gear already and I'm signed out for leave, so we can go when you close up."

Ianto looked around. The library was empty, and it wasn't likely anyone would come in the next half-hour. Lo gave him a wicked grin.

"Or I could blow you behind your desk," he offered.

" _Not_ necessary, thank you," Ianto said, though he considered it for a split second first. "I'll close up. There's a bag on my bed, will you fetch it?"

Lo ran off to grab his luggage while Ianto powered down the monitors and made sure the library was secure. He put out a hand to take the bag but Lo ignored that, so Ianto locked the doors and followed him down the hallway towards the shuttle bay.

Lo slung Ianto's bag in the back, climbed into the pilot's seat, and waved Ianto into the copilot's chair.

"You know I don't actually know how to work this, right?" Ianto said, staring at the dials and manual feeds.

"It's really just for combat flight," Lo told him. "So, we'll exit high, do a slingshot around Mars, that'll take us on a thirty degree trajectory above the asteroid belt, and from there it's a straight shot until we hit Eden Six. We're bound for Eden Two. Nice and warm," he added, hands moving confidently over the controls. "By the way, you are banned from picking the music."

"What?" Ianto asked, mildly outraged.

"Unless you pick good stuff," Lo informed him.

"Like what?" Ianto demanded. Lo plugged his porterminal into the console and flicked a switch.

_Come fly with me, come fly_   
_Let's fly away_   
_Just say the word and we'll beat the birds_   
_Down to Acapulco bay..._

Ianto rolled his eyes. Lo hummed along with it as he went through preflight, and then as the bay doors opened and he lifted up the little craft, he began to sing along.

_Come fly with me, let's fly_   
_Let's fly away_   
_If you can use some exotic booze_   
_There's a bar in far Bombay_

There was an odd slur to his words that worried Ianto for a minute, until he realised he wasn't hearing a translation of what Lo said -- Lo was singing along in English (Late English, his memory supplied) without knowing quite what the words meant or how to say them. Like Owen used to do with Tosh's J-pop.

Then Lo pulled the control yoke back slightly and flicked another switch, and the stars did a streaky thing, like out of Star Wars. Lo didn't skip a beat; Ianto felt his heart speed up slightly before he realised he was bracing for an acceleration that had already happened.

Lo cast a sidelong grin at him. "Once I'm around Mars in another hour or so, I'll set the destination coordinates and it'll fly itself. This time tomorrow, we'll be there."

"Well, the scenery's not very interesting," Ianto said, although in some respects it was. He could see Earth shrinking behind them on one of the scroll screens, and there was a little pointer on the front screen blinking where Mars would eventually appear. _Mars_. Another whole planet, Earth's nearest cousin, an industrial center and shipping port. Beyond that the Eden system, first of the settled colonies outside the home system, with seven inhabitable planets crowding together around a sun just a little older than Earth's. This time tomorrow he'd be standing on an alien planet.

Lo had been born on an alien planet, way out near the edge of civilised space. He'd fought his war there and been carried on a _space cruise ship_ from there back to the origin, the home system, and hadn't even cared much to see where his ancestors came from. Quantico, Cardiff, Eden Two; it was all one to Lo, but to Ianto it needed careful thought and examination.

"Smile, Mr. Jones," Lo said, and Ianto looked up to find him giving Ianto his own very uncertain smile. "We're on leave."

Ianto smiled back, and Lo's brightened. "So we are."

***

They could actually have shaved a few hours off their flight time if they'd left the home system a little sooner, but Lo wanted to show off for Ianto, and it paid off big time. As they zipped just over the leading edge of the asteroid belt, Ianto sucked in a breath and leaned forward as if he could actually see out of the ship. Lo smiled over his instruments and let Ianto look, while he engaged the autopilot and proximity beacons. A ship of this size didn't have a lot of room to spare, but he didn't think they needed a very big bed, and if it had a food heater and a toilet that was all Lo required. He'd lived rough in a rustbucket before.

Ianto was still staring as Lo stood up, stretched, and edged into the back of the craft to rummage for a snack. He had plans for leave, extensive plans. First thing, he was going to go down to the water and go swimming; then he was going to build a beach fire and probably try to get Ianto out of his clothes, and _then_ go to bed, and the next day, apparently there were farms nearby, they could get good cheese and Bovv so fresh it was still bleeding, and he heard there was fishing. If he could get his hands on a javelin he could catch fish, which would definitely be impressive and cool.

He heard Ianto get up and turned to wave him into the back, offering him a sweet-curl from the bag he'd brought with him. Ianto sat down on the narrow bed and took a bite, studying it.

"We called these palmieres," Ianto said, and Lo rolled the word around in his mouth. _Palmiere_. He couldn't wait until he was a Time Agent and would have a translation implant like Ianto probably had. Or maybe Ianto was just good with languages. Either way, Lo was hungry to actually comprehend most of what he heard in the songs, instead of just reading the translations.

Lo sat down next to him, thigh against Ianto's, and put his free hand on Ianto's leg.

"I swear to god," Ianto said, turning to him in amusement. "I never thought I'd have the opportunity to kiss anyone in deep space."

"Really? Is it different somehow?" Lo asked, honestly curious.

"It is for me," Ianto said. Lo kissed him, sweet pastry and sugar on his lips.

"Stay there," he said, and went to the opposite wall, activating the scroll screen. Outside wasn't much of interest, a few stars and the black expanse of empty space between systems, but Ianto's eyes widened a little.

Lo knelt in front of Ianto and ran his hands up his thighs, smiling.

"You're...almost dangerous," Ianto said, sounding like he was torn between a laugh and a moan. Lo ignored him and undid the snaps on his trousers, pressing his face to Ianto's stomach. Ianto's hands cupped his head, sliding through his hair, almost cradling it, and Lo felt -- safe, here in a ship he understood, leaving the home system behind. There was more certainty here. At least, for him.

They spent most of the flight in bed. Lo got up from time to time to check on the instruments, and Ianto cooked them a few meals in the little heater, but for the most part Lo unwound -- and slowly unwound Ianto -- from months of school and long endless corridors and chafing against something he couldn't even name.

But the war was done, and classes at least for a little while. Ianto made such lovely noises when Lo kept him on the edge, and when he tumbled over it.

Ianto was asleep when the pilot's alert went off, letting Lo know that they were passing Eden Six and he should take the yoke again. He slid out from the bed carefully and walked naked to the pilot's chair, checking their speed. He dressed, not bothering with his boots or collar, and was just sliding them into a sweet orbit when Ianto stirred.

"Almost there," he called over his shoulder. Ianto sat up, eyes dark and vivid from sleep. "You might want to put some pants on."

"Mm," Ianto agreed, easing out of bed. "God, it's green."

Lo gazed down at one of the major landmasses of Eden Two, swirled with blue where land met ocean. "Like what you see?"

"It's strange," Ianto said, buttoning his shirt as he slid into the copilot's seat. Lo began the sequence for atmospheric entry. "I'm used to seeing Earth's continents."

"Early terraforming wasn't very regular," Lo observed, peering at it. "You should see the factory farm planets. Grids for continents."

Ianto was silent as they penetrated Eden Two's atmosphere and Lo guided them over the northeastern continent. The coordinates Steward had given him -- in exchange for a few juicy details about him and Ianto -- put them on the east coast, just far enough above the equator to avoid the hottest weather. _A house on the coast_ , she'd said. _Walk to the water from your door. What will you two do with each other for ten days?_

Lo had a few ideas.

The closest landing pad was miles from the house waiting for them and it was getting dark when they landed, but the obliging farm-manager who owned the house met them and gave them a lift, speeding down the dusty rural roads and skewing around corners in a way Lo deeply appreciated in his wingheaded soul. The farm-manager gave them a key to the house, told them there was a hoverbus to the nearest town that came past twice a day, and left them to it with a wink at Ianto, who had apparently been cast in the role of Wealthy Man Taking A Young Lover.

Lo didn't even wait to go inside. From the front porch of the small, rather rundown-looking house, he could see the waves crash on the beach. As soon as the car was gone, he began stripping off his clothes, ignoring Ianto's lifted eyebrow and leaving his bag on the porch. He ran down to the beach naked, crashed into the sea, and dove under a wave, blowing salt water out his nose as he surfaced. It smelled like _home._

Ianto was standing on the beach, still fully dressed, watching him with a small smile on his face.

"It's warm!" Lo called.

"It's eight at night," Ianto called back.

"So? They don't switch the ocean off when it gets dark," Lo yelled. He ducked underwater again as another wave crashed, letting it drag him back towards the shore a little ways. It was quiet and dark, under the wave, until the edge broke and pushed him along with a roar. "If you don't want to swim, go inside, I'll come up when I'm done."

"I can wait," Ianto said, leaning back against the scrubby trunk of a beach-tree. Lo amused himself testing his speed against the waves, diving to try and catch small dappled fish with his fingers, seeing if he still knew how to do a handstand. The water was rougher than on Boeshane, but a wave was a wave.

He finally looped back in towards shore, heaving himself out of the water and shaking his hair to get the excess out of it. Ianto was still there, sitting below the tree now, his boots and socks neatly arranged next to him, shirtsleeves rolled up.

For just a second, the war had never happened; he was fourteen again, bathing in the surf on a beach on the peninsula, and here was a stranger, very much worth interest, worth the effort perhaps to get him out of all those clothes. He offered his hand, water dripping off his fingertips, and Ianto took it and let himself be pulled up.

"Come up to the house with me," Lo said, "and let me get you salty."

Ianto laughed. "That's a _terrible_ line."

Lo pressed his thumb to Ianto's lips and eventually they opened, sucking the tip in. He let Ianto taste the ocean on him, the clean salt tang, and then pulled back, offering his hand instead. Ianto took it and let himself be led back to the house Lo hadn't even seen the inside of yet.

He could always build a beach fire tomorrow.

***

Eden Two was a planet without pollution, or at least without the sort of pollution Ianto had been accustomed to, hadn't even really noticed, on Earth. The water was clear and clean, much less perilous to swim in than the cloudy water back home. He let Lo coax him into it mainly because the water pressure in the little rented house wasn't very good for showers and Lo assured him nobody was around for miles.

The first few days were quiet, sedate, mostly consumed with swimming and coming up to the house to eat something and then going back down to the beach. Somewhere Lo found a sharp short spear he called a fishing javelin, and Ianto watched from the beach as Lo hunted with it, way out in the water, a seemingly insurmountable challenge. Still, usually when he came back he had at least a fish or two in a net bag tied to his wrist, and it wasn't as if it was a hardship to watch a naked seventeen-year-old hunting in the waves.

Wik said that the peninsula of the major landmass of Boeshane had been famous for its fishing, before the war. Ianto imagined that Lo had grown up learning to swim before he could walk, playing on the beaches, bathing in the surf. A nice childhood -- nicer than Ianto's, perhaps -- at least until the Flyers had come. And then, no more childhood at all.

"What are you thinking?" Lo asked, casually gutting and skinning fish as he sat crosslegged across a fire from Ianto one afternoon. He was naked; Ianto didn't think Lo had actually put proper trousers on since they'd arrived. Then again, Ianto was naked too; nudity was an effect Jack Harkness tended to have on people. It wasn't like it was cold -- the sun was out in force, and there was a hot breeze. The fire was just for the fish, which looked mouthwatering even raw, a translucent sapphire blue that Ianto knew, from previous meals, would darken to navy when cooked.

"Deep thoughts, hm?" Lo prodded.

"Not especially," Ianto replied. He watched Lo fling the guts across the sand. Scavenger birds, bright pink and noisy, picked the offal apart. "Thought I might go into town at some point."

"We need laals," Lo told him, nodding.

"...we do?" Ianto said warily.

"Mmhm."

"What are laals?" Ianto asked.

"The little citrus fruits? I know you've had them, they serve them at mess all the time."

"Well, sometimes I don't know the name of what I'm eating," Ianto replied.

"The small yellow ones you eat whole. They go with fish. Sweet," Lo said. He laid the fillets out on a wet bit of driftwood he'd found and shoved it into the flame. "Good fishing in these parts."

He looked up past Ianto's shoulder and his eyes narrowed briefly; Ianto turned to see a figure standing on the dune above them, and he belatedly realised that his pants were several feet away.

"Afternoon," the woman called, descending the dune as Lo shaded his eyes to see her better. "Either of you know how far I am from Central One?"

Ianto pulled his legs up to his chest. Lo gave him a sardonic look.

"About an hour by hovercar," he said.

"Ah," the woman looked disappointed. She was pretty: light-brown skin darkened a little by the sun, brown eyes, lovely hair that fell in three neat braids to her shoulders. She was older than them, but not by more than a few years for Ianto, if that. Thirty, maybe a young-looking thirty-five. "Mine's broken down. I saw a bus sign -- "

"Already come through today," Lo shrugged. "You can call road service from our place if you want."

"I called already. They said the earliest they can get out here is tomorrow."

"Rural," Lo remarked to Ianto, who was trying to disappear. He looked back over Ianto's shoulder again and grinned. "Sorry about my friend. He's shy."

"It's nothing I haven't already seen, sweetheart," the woman told him. Ianto put his hands over his face, trying not to laugh, wishing he could sink into the sand. He saw, through his fingers, Lo stand up and dust the sand off his arse.

"Lo Boeshane," he said, holding out a hand. "That's Ianto Jones. We're renting the house up the dune."

Ianto could see where this was going. Even before she gave her name -- "Tatia Bloom, I'm a tourist too!" -- he could see the smile on Lo's face. Pulled just slightly to one side, a pretty curl of his lips, bright even teeth, and the light in his eyes that made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

Ianto did not fall for the smile anymore, hadn't since the twenty-first century, but pretty much everyone else he'd ever met did. He listened as Lo talked to her, flirted and made gentle innuendo and finally suggested a solution -- they could, of course, call their landlord and have him come give her a lift. Or she could stay the night with them, and they'd be happy to walk her back to her hovercar in the morning to meet road services.

"Why don't you have a swim before you decide?" Lo asked, and Tatia said yes, of course she said yes. Lo was really terrible at making friends in the military but in one-on-one flirtation was difficult to beat. Not that anyone would really want to try. You'd start making out before the judges could declare a winner.

"Ianto?" Lo asked, as Tatia began to undress, already walking down towards the waves. Lo stopped halfway between the fire and the water-line. He gave Ianto a hesitant look.

"She's pretty," Ianto said, as Tatia stripped off her trousers.

"Yeah, but -- I dunno, twenty-first-century morals and all..."

"I don't mind," Ianto said. "I didn't mind you and Myles -- you don't fuss about me and Blithe. I get it, Lo."

Lo frowned. Then he shrugged, turned, and ran into the water, past Tatia, diving headlong through the waves. Tatia glanced back at Ianto, smiled a little at him, and followed Lo.

Ianto, while they weren't looking, hastily got up and went to fetch his trousers.

The fish that Lo had prepared was just about finished by the time he and Tatia emerged from the water. Ianto anticipated being at least a little more coherent now that he was less naked, though (as expected, really) both Tatia and Lo didn't bother putting their clothing back on. They did cast odd little sidelong glances at each other, but plenty of people did that when naked and anticipating sex.

"Lo says you work for the Fleet," Tatia said, while Lo crammed half a fillet in his mouth at a go.

"I'm the librarian at Quantico station," Ianto answered. "Lo's a Cadet there."

"Men in uniform," Tatia said, grinning.

"Or out of it, apparently," Ianto replied. He glanced at Lo, who rolled his eyes and then leaned back, wriggling, showing off his evenly tanned skin. _All_ of it.

"Nobody cares, Ianto," he said.

"Well, I do," Ianto said. "Sorry if I feel more talkative when I'm not...dangling."

"I think it's sweet," Tatia remarked. "Sort of old-fashioned."

"You have no idea," Lo said.

"Oi! Right here!" Ianto flicked sand at him. Lo let out a yelp and put his hands up, flinching away.

"So, Tatia says she'd like to stay the night," he said, when he was done laughing. "Dinner for three?"

"Oh -- well, I -- " Ianto cast about, awkwardly. "You're welcome to, of course," he said. "I thought I might sleep out on the porch..."

Lo looked perplexed. Ianto looked down at his fish. He honestly didn't mind; after all, in one sense, he was being unfaithful to Jack just being here (though the fifty-first century was the strangest infidelity he'd ever committed, which was not lessened by the fact that it was the only infidelity he'd ever committed). This wasn't his time, and sex meant something different here. It was just so very...awkward, not knowing how to handle this, what to do about it.

"Do you only like men?" Tatia asked, into the silence. Lo snorted. "Or maybe you don't find me attractive. It's all right, I have very good self-esteem, you can say so."

Ianto looked up, bewildered now too. All three of them stared at each other in silence for a few confused seconds.

"Ohh," Lo said finally, and a light dawned in his eyes. "You thought -- oh," he said, and put his hand over his mouth to hide a laugh. He looked at Tatia. "He thought I wanted you all to myself. He thought he wasn't invited!"

Ianto blinked. "Isn't that...?" he asked, slowly, and then the realisation hit him too. "Oh, you want..."

"It'd be a waste to leave you out," she said, leaning forward, smiling at him. "I do detest a waste."

Ianto swallowed and looked to Lo for guidance. Lo was studying him intently.

"You've never been with two people before," Lo said.

"Have you?" Ianto asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"Well, yes." Lo frowned. "That explains it, I suppose. Think we can be gentle with him?" he asked Tatia, whose smile increased by a few watts.

"Oh yes, I think so," she said.

"You don't have to," Lo added to Ianto. "If you don't want to. Hope you want to," he added, helping himself to the last of the fish.

"So do I," Tatia told him.

Ianto couldn't say he was _unused_ to the sweeping, appreciative way she was looking at him. Jack used to do that, but Ianto always thought it was one part deliberate charm and one part habit. He wasn't hideous, but he wasn't particularly special either. Just Ianto: a bit pale, not terribly well-muscled, not especially weedy. Average.

And, well, no, he had never done this, but he had done arguably kinkier things with Jack. Looked at in one light, adding a third was really fairly tame.

"I smell like fish," Lo announced, licking his fingers. "I'm going back in. Tatia?"

"All right," she agreed, but she glanced at Ianto curiously.

"I think I'll go back up to the house," Ianto said, piling sand on the dying fire. Tatia looked faintly dismayed, but Lo gave him a quick nod.

As he turned to go, he heard Lo say in a quiet voice, "He needs to think. It's the way he is."

Ianto collected his shirt from where he'd hung it on the nearby beach-tree and walked back to the house above the dunes. His porterminal, plugged into the house's scroll screen, showed no messages. He washed briefly to get the sand off his skin and the fish off his hands (it certainly was pungent) and then dressed, casting about for something to do.

Eventually he took his porterminal out to the porch with him and checked his daily feed: newsvids, a few photos from Blithe on her public access page, status reports from Quantico. It was warm, and the chair was comfortable, and Ianto had spent most of the day swimming, trying to keep up with Lo until his shoulders were sore. He dozed off with his porterminal in his lap, feet propped on the railing of the porch.

He woke to salty lips on his -- Lo kissing him, hair still damp from the ocean, Tatia leaning over his shoulder and smiling. Ianto let his eyes rest on their faces for a while, not all that compelled to speak, until Lo leaned back a little.

"Inside?" Lo asked, his voice rich with meaning. In that second, he really did sound like Jack; a lower register, a wealth of experience and promise, gentleness behind steel.

Ianto nodded. Lo ran his hands up Ianto's forearms and then back again, pulling him out of the chair. Ianto was, damn it, still the only one wearing trousers.

Tatia had already wandered into the house, and perhaps Lo had already shown her around while Ianto slept -- she was nowhere to be seen until Lo led him to the bedroom and left him at the doorway, to enter or not of his own accord.

Ianto lingered there, watching. Tatia was sitting on the bed, not especially posed, as if she were waiting more than anything; Lo crawled up to the headboard and pulled her back, so that he sat looking at Ianto and Tatia was secured against him with his arm around her waist. She turned her head and kissed Lo's jaw.

They were beautiful together. He was tempted to simply stay in the doorway, watching, and tell them to go on. Lo would be perplexed, but he'd accept that, and Tatia probably wouldn't care.

But Lo was beckoning him forward. He went, kneeling to face them, not quite a part of their coupling yet.

"This is comfy," Lo said casually, nipping Tatia's ear. He rolled his hips and she laughed. "Don't you think, Ianto?"

Ianto wasn't sure what to say.

"And this? Yes?" Lo reached out, pushing Tatia forward for a second. He grasped Ianto's wrist, tugging him closer. Tatia put her arms around his neck.

"Shy," she said, kissing him. "Say yes, shy man."

Ianto rested his forehead against the curve of her shoulder. He realised both of them were waiting; that if he said no, or even if he just didn't say yes, nothing would happen. Lo with the blush of arousal high in his cheeks, Tatia's quick heartbeat, all of that would go away. A waste, yes, a waste and a shame.

"Yes," he said, and Lo laughed deep and Tatia petted his hair, approvingly.

***

Lo knew that sex, for Ianto, was wrapped up in all kinds of codes and emotions that he couldn't hope to untangle or even, mostly, comprehend: monogamy, ownership, power, control. Most of the time it didn't matter; Ianto was also quick and smart and someone, probably the dancing boyfriend, had taught him to breathe through the scary stuff. (The idea of sex as something to be feared was a truly unsettling one.)

Why this in particular should make Ianto so recalcitrant, so silent and withdrawn, was a mystery to Lo, but he didn't have to understand it. Ianto was not someone to let others decide for him, and if he said yes then he meant it, whatever unfathomable mental process it had taken him to get there.

Tatia was asleep now, arm flung over Ianto's waist, and Ianto was drowsing, eyes closed but not quite unconscious yet. Lo lay facing them both, watching, very pleased with himself. Tatia was marvelous, and had managed to teach Lo a thing or two in the course of the evening. Ianto had been quiet and a little reserved, but he'd been enthusiastic enough. He'd shown off for her, even, when she said she wanted to watch them together.

The noise in Lo's head had been mercifully quiet, of late. The long sleep he'd had when the war was finally over, that must have helped. Lo still sometimes dreamed of the 43rd or of Gray, but his waking hours weren't so haunted as they had been. Perhaps this was simply what happened to soldiers; perhaps it really did fade the way Chaplain was always telling him it would. Maybe he could ask Admiral Levy, the next time he saw him.

Still, sometimes he dreamed that he was on the peninsula, the beach where he'd played games with Gray and his parents or bathed with them, and the legions of the dead began to march out of the water. Gath, Beal, his mother and father, his friends and neighbours, his fellow pilots, dripping water and blood and trailing red streaks up the sand.

He didn't want to dream about that tonight. Perhaps he should just stay awake. He could get his porterminal and read all night, or wait until Ianto was asleep and then get up and go out to the porch to watch the tide come in.

Ianto shifted his weight a little, and his eyes opened hazily on Lo, who smiled.

"Go to sleep," Lo said softly. Ianto drifted out a hand, tentative, and Lo inched closer.

"I will if you will," Ianto said.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Ianto cocked an eyebrow, which was ruined slightly by a yawn. "Are you?" he asked, when he was done.

"Where else would I be?" Lo asked, amused.

"Miles away," Ianto replied. "Quantico. Boeshane, for all I know."

Lo let himself be drawn up against Ianto, their faces almost touching on the pillow. "I'm trying to stay here."

"I know," Ianto mumbled sleepily. His hand was warm and broad on Lo's waist, anchoring him. "I'm trying to help."

"Go to sleep," Lo repeated. "I'll stay."

He meant to stay awake, watching over them -- that was a soldier's job, after all -- but eventually he drifted off too.

His dreams, if he had any, were formless and unremembered.

***

Jack had been one of the most annoying bed-mates of Ianto's existence, in the twenty-first century: a light sleeper, he was always getting out of bed and back in, rolling over, waking and falling back asleep, usually dragging Ianto up out of sleep along with him. Nights spent with him, unless Jack just got up and left him alone entirely (as he sometimes did), were not Ianto's most restful nights.

Lo on the other hand, once you got him to sleep at all, tended to sleep like a rock. He didn't move, he wouldn't _be_ moved, a dead weight in the bed until he woke. Admittedly sometimes those few minutes before waking were unpleasant; Ianto suspected he had nightmares, but if he did he wouldn't talk about them. Still, it was usually reassuring to wake up and find Lo where he'd left him.

When Ianto woke the morning after Tatia's visit, he was alone in the bed. Lo would have woken him if something were wrong, but he still felt unsettled, and grappled for his porterminal. 0823. Later than he usually slept, and --

There was music coming from the kitchen, muffled by the bedroom door. Ianto found a pair of trousers and stumbled through the door, yawning, to be met with a blast of horn fanfare.

"Morning," Lo yelled above the music before turning it down. He was standing at the heater, stirring something on top of it. Ianto didn't even know the boy knew how to use a saucepan; he'd shown no evidence of this knowledge in the past.

"Morning," Ianto yawned, sitting down across the counter from him and accepting the glass of juice Lo pressed on him. Sometimes Ianto couldn't tell what kind of fruit was in the juice; good old orange and apple had given way a millennia ago to other, more exotic alien foodstuffs.

"Tatia went off. She said to say goodbye and thanks. Service called around six, said they were ready to come get her. Assholes," Lo declared.

"I'm sorry I missed her," Ianto said, genuinely regretful. He would have liked to have told her thank-you.

"Well, she might be back this way before we leave, never know your luck," Lo said, grinning at him. "You were great."

"One tries," Ianto drawled. Lo laughed. Over the scroll screen speakers, Ella was singing. _If a custom-tailored vet asks me out for something wet, when the vet begins to pet I shout hooray..._

" _But I'm always true to you, darling, in my fashion_ ," Lo sang along in Jack's clear tenor. " _I'm always true to you, darling, in my way._ "

"You know what that one means?" Ianto asked, finding it oddly appropriate both for the previous night's activities and for his own deeply bizarre relationship with Jack -- Lo -- Levy. Ella was already on the Boss of Boston's tender passes.

"Sure, it's about marriage," Lo said. Ianto's jaw dropped.

"How do you get that?" he asked.

"Well, she has lovers all over, rich men and women who want to make her happy," Lo explained, as if this were obvious. "But she has one special lover she would never leave. That's marriage, isn't it?"

"Not in my time. Not for many, anyway," Ianto replied. Ella crooned about meals with steel tycoons.

"My father had a lover, he was a traveling supplier. Fishing gear, mostly. Whenever he came to the peninsula he stayed with us," Lo said absently, tasting whatever was in the pot on the heater. It was pink, which made Ianto deeply suspicious. "Sometimes my mother would spend a night with one of the teachers at the upper school. She had a thing for teachers," he added.

Ianto watched, wondering if he was remembering them or just making conversation without thinking about it.

"But they were married, so they meant something special to each other," Lo concluded. "Beal's parents had a wife, I always thought it would have been nice to have three parents. You could probably get one of them to say yes if you wanted something."

Ianto couldn't help but laugh. "Working an angle."

"If you like." Lo took the pot off the heater and poured it out into two bowls. "I think the song is nice. She wants her lover to know she'll always love them no matter what."

"What is this?" Ianto asked, poking the food with a spork.

"Sweetgrain porridge. It's good, try it," Lo urged. Ianto tasted it, decided it probably wouldn't kill him, and kept eating. Lo watched him, curiosity lurking in his eyes.

"What?" Ianto asked, swallowing.

"Can I ask you something weird?" Lo asked. Ianto shrugged. "Last night -- why were you nervous? I mean," he added hurriedly, "it's fine, it didn't matter to me, but -- I don't know why you would be."

Ianto considered it. He wasn't sure himself. "We didn't know her. Where...when...I'm from, well, not always, but...you want to know the person you're with. I do, anyway. How did you know you could trust her, that it was okay to...how did you know it would be all right?"

Lo cocked his head. "I didn't, I suppose. I just..."

Ianto watched a slow transformation wash over Lo's face -- first confusion, then surprise, then an odd pleasure.

"I just did," he said, smiling. "A leap of faith. It's been -- that was the first time, I think, for a long time. Huh."

Ianto smiled back. "Happy?"

"I am, yeah. I -- " Lo swallowed and then gave him the most direct look he'd ever seen on the young man's face. "I have a brother, did you know that?"

Ianto wanted to give him a sardonic look for the non-sequiter, but he suspected he knew what was coming, and his insides clenched.

"No," he lied. "Do you?"

"His name's Gray." Lo looked down. "I haven't told anyone that. Beal knew, some of the 43rd probably knew, there were Boeshane soldiers there."

And suddenly the whole story was pouring out, a story Ianto already knew at least part of. The attack on the peninsula, Gray's disappearance, Lo's futile search first on the beach and then throughout the peninsula, his mother's search across all of Boeshane, but there were so many people looking for their loved ones. He didn't know, before now, that Lo's mother had given up, or that Lo suspected she had wasted and died of grief. He'd never heard Jack speak very directly about his plans to find Gray, to join the Time Agency and use that power to search out his brother.

But he knew the ending of that story, one Lo didn't know. Gray's torture, his reappearance, how he had tried to destroy Cardiff and succeeded in murdering Tosh and Owen, the horrors he had inflicted on Jack. Lo was looking for a child, but Gray would be a grown man, a crazed murderer, by the time he and Lo met again.

When Lo was finished, he looked at Ianto like he was expecting a slap, like he thought anyone who knew would turn away from him in disgust. Ianto set his bowl on the counter and came around to stand next to him. Lo didn't turn to face him.

"Everyone said it wasn't my fault," Lo murmured. "I was a boy, I didn't know any better, they made excuses. Doesn't help. Even if it wasn't my fault, I'm the only one left. I have to find him. Nobody else will."

Ianto considered his profile, so young and so afraid.

"I had a girlfriend," he said slowly. He couldn't tell Lo the truth; he couldn't even tell him a very complicated lie, because it would take too long and would hurt too much. "She got sick. Then violent. She tried to kill me."

Lo looked up at him, eyes wide.

"I still protected her. I thought I could fix her, all on my own, because nobody else would help me. We'd been forgotten," Ianto continued. Hours, weeks, months alone in the depths of the Hub, with the hiss of Lisa's respirator, the constant knot in his stomach. "Someone I...knew, he -- found out, he killed her. He was protecting me. I didn't understand that. I thought I'd lost her, that it was my fault. I know it's not, now, that there was nothing I could do. Sometimes someone outside of you has to tell you," he added, fumbling. "We try to, anyway."

"It was still my fault," Lo muttered.

"I'm not to know," Ianto said. "I wasn't there. But if it was your fault, I forgive you."

Lo frowned. "Is that supposed to help?"

"Can't hurt," Ianto said. "It means it doesn't matter to me what you did or didn't do. It changes nothing."

He turned Lo, very carefully, and pulled Lo's head down to his shoulder. Lo's arms went around his waist automatically. Ianto rested his chin on the crown of Lo's head. This was not something Jack would have permitted, not any of this, but Jack Harkness wasn't here and Lo Boeshane was.

"Thank you for telling me," he said. Lo nodded against his neck.

"You won't tell anyone?" Lo asked. "If the Time Agency found out, they'd never let me in."

Ianto shook his head. "Nope."

"Not even Steward."

"She is not privy to all my secrets," Ianto said gently.

"Am I?"

"The ones I can tell you, yes."

"And the ones you can't?" Lo pressed, leaning back to look at him.

"I can't tell anyone those," Ianto said, rubbing Lo's cheek with his thumb. "Might rip a hole in time. Not so good."

"No, I guess not," Lo agreed. He paused, then plunged ahead. "When you leave at the end of the year, where will you go?"

Ianto ducked his head. "Home. My own time."

"I thought -- "

"And I can't tell you how I know," Ianto added, before Lo could finish.

"I could come visit you," Lo said slyly. "I'll be a Time Agent. Come sweep you off your feet in the twenty-first."

"We'll see, won't we?" Ianto asked lightly, and Lo let him go. "Swimming today?"

Lo shook his head. "Not today. I'm tired."

Ianto smiled. "Fair enough. What shall we do?"

"For a start, eat your porridge before it gets cold," Lo said, pointing at his bowl. Ianto wisely withdrew to his chair again, and ate quietly while Lo sang along with the songs on the porterminal.

_See how the shadows deepen, darken_   
_You and your girl should get to sparkin'_   
_I got someone that I love so --_   
_Glow little glow-worm, glow_

They stayed inside that day, pulled down all the shades on the windows and watched old films Ianto found in the entertainment database -- Alfred Hitchcock, Humphrey Bogart, Tim Burton, the James Bond films Ianto hadn't seen. Lo was entranced by Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman, frightened by _Sleepy Hollow_ , confused over how James Bond would seduce a woman to get what he wanted but would shoot a man for the same thing.

"I get it," he said, hands describing a perplexed arc in the air. "I mean, I get the idea. But if you're going to be a secret agent you have to want to use everything you can. Sex is better than shooting," he added. "Some of the bad guys must have been attracted to him. He could have used that."

"Different time," Ianto said, because explaining it wearied him, and thinking about returning to it sometimes wearied him even more. "Different rules."

"No wonder everyone goes around shooting everyone else. It must have been frustrating."

Ianto thought about Jack. About Gwen's wedding, where he'd danced with Jack and seen the looks on peoples' faces. About how the day before he'd been shot, he and Jack had gone to dinner at that French place by the Memorial and he'd tried, he really had, not to notice the looks -- until he saw a familiar face, couldn't place it, knew it was trouble all the same.

"What's wrong?" Jack had asked.

"Nothing," he'd said, and tried harder, and been _tired_ of trying. Even if Jack was worth it. God, he'd been tired.

"Yeah," he said to Lo, and pulled him close, because he could, because here it was normal. Nobody stared. Nobody cared. "Frustrating's the word."

The next morning Lo wanted to swim and Ianto wanted there to be something other than crackers in the kitchen. He left Lo on the beach and caught the hoverbus (he would never get used to hoverbuses) into town, and that was where he ran straight into Jack.

"Fucking hell," he said, when Jack appeared like a ghost from behind the meat freezer in the little grocer's. "I'm going to put a bloody bell on you."

"You need to come with me," Jack said.

And Ianto, god help him, put the basket of food down in the middle of the aisle and followed Jack out, down the street and into a little cafe, where Jack bought them coffee with eerie precision and sat them in the table furthest from the door.

"I don't suppose you're on a random farm planet by accident," Ianto said, because obviously Jack was going to play mysterious and secretive like he always did.

"No," Jack said, and tossed a folder across the table to him. "I couldn't transmit this over open channels. Even over secure ones."

Ianto realised, belatedly, Jack wasn't wearing his Fleet uniform. Civs; he'd never seen Jack when he wasn't wearing some uniform or other, except of course for the moments he'd seen him wearing nothing at all.

He looked down and saw the Torchwood logo embossed on the cover of the folder.

"Fleet Admiral, Time Agent, now good old Torchwood," he murmured. "Is there a pie in this galaxy you've not got your finger in, Jack?"

"You live long enough, you learn the value of information. _All_ of the information," Jack said. "Read it."

Ianto opened the folder. Inside were two pieces of paper, each in a thin metal frame.

"Those are time-locked," Jack continued. "They're preserved against changes in the timestream. They're just how they were when they were printed out, eight and nine days ago. Nine days is on top."

Ianto skimmed the first page until he saw his name. Then he squinted at it -- name, date of birth, security clearance, date of employ.

"This is my employee record," he said. "From Torchwood. I shouldn't be seeing this."

"Desperate times," Jack said.

Ianto looked down at the paper again. It wasn't his detailed file, just a staff summary. There was his suspension after Lisa's death, his first and second pay rises, a listing of arms he was qualified in --

**Date of Death: 9.7.2009.**

"July n -- that's three weeks after I left," he said, looking up at Jack in horror. "Jesus Christ, I die three weeks after -- you bring me here, make them heal me, give me a life -- and you're sending me back to _die?_ "

"Read the -- "

"Jack, I can't know this," Ianto said, finding he was oddly detached about his own death. Sometimes the fabric of time took priority. "You can't be telling me this, and anyway -- you had to know, so why tell me now? Why are you -- what..." he looked down at the paper, honestly confused, and then back up at Jack. "You'll have to retcon me. They do that in this century, right?"

"Read the second page," Jack said, not breaking his gaze. Ianto shuffled the first page aside and looked down at the second one. The top half looked the same -- all his vital statistics, name, rank, serial number...

But the bottom half was different. Longer. Yes, there was his suspension, his pay increases, his arms qualifications --

And then there were eight more pay increases, over the course of ten years. Two hospital stays. Added qualifications, including a liaison clearance with UNIT.

And nothing at all under his date of death. For all this paper could tell him, he was still bloody well alive.

He looked back and forth between the two.

"I don't understand," he said.

"You're right, I shouldn't be telling you this, but I have to," Jack said. "Are you familiar with the Centre?"

"The Time Agency supercomputer? A bit," Ianto said.

"It picked you up as an anomaly nine days ago. Nine days ago you were going to die on July ninth, but look what's not on that report."

Ianto looked again. No extended hospital stays. His shooting wasn't on the report.

"Eight days ago suddenly nobody knows when you died anymore."

"That can't be right," Ianto murmured, trying to puzzle it out. Paperwork was supposed to make everything make sense. "Then this one must be wrong," he said, tapping the first page.

"Ten days ago both your death and that hospital stay were there," Jack said. "I didn't get a printout of that one, so you'll just have to trust me. Nine days ago the hospital stay disappears. Eight days ago there's no record of you dying, ever. Since then, it fluctuates. Sometimes by the hour."

"So either I never got shot and died, or I got shot and then died, or I got shot and never die?" Ianto raised an eyebrow. "Not that I think immortality is so great, I've seen what it does to you, but not dying two weeks after I come home would be nice."

"You're an anomaly. Right now, right here, you're in a state of temporal flux. Every decision we make has branches -- "

"Spare me the explanation, Jack, I've seen the films."

"Fine. But most branches just lead back to the same conclusion. Call that destiny or time logic or whatever you want, usually we only have two or three paths in life," Jack said.

"And? So?"

"So your branches fell off the tree," Jack said. "The Centre is designed to see what should-have-been, after the Time War, and the Time Agency sends people out to make sure should-have-been becomes _is_. The Centre can't tell what's going to happen to you even though it happened three thousand years ago. It literally doesn't know what your future is or should be. You have no ending. That's never happened before."

Ianto picked up his coffee to stop his hands shaking. Why did they have to make it so fucking sweet?

"So what now?" he asked. "Quick execution? Retcon? Put me in a box somewhere until you figure out why I'm suddenly the freak?"

Jack leaned back, fingers drumming on the table.

"The Time Agency wants me to fix it," he said. "Torchwood isn't so sure."

"And us caught in the middle. Lucky you," Ianto said.

"Thousands of years of human myth and a hundred years of Time Agency experience have taught us that when you act in order to stop something from happening, that pretty much guarantees the action will be what makes it happen," Jack said.

"Then you shouldn't have told me."

"They didn't want me to. They don't know I'm here. But something that is happening right now, in this place, to you, is changing the outcome that was supposed to be -- back and forth, between certainty and chaos. I didn't take you from your time to make you pretty again, Ianto. The fact that you were going to go home again and die, that this is literally a year's grace, didn't come into it. I'm sorry if that hurts you."

"You're not my Jack," Ianto said. "And I knew he could be a ruthless bastard, anyway."

"I need you to understand that the decisions you're making affect your outcome. And I need you to choose this one," Jack said, tapping the first page, the one with the ominous date of death on it. "You have to, because that was the set outcome when you came here. If you go flying loose in time, it could pull the universe apart. I know you know this because you just got pissed at me about it."

"Well, the whole universe. Makes me feel important," Ianto said.

"Don't make fun. You have to understand this. I'm asking you to choose to die."

Ianto leaned forward. "You gave me the extra year. It wasn't like I expected old age, Jack."

Jack looked like he'd been expecting a fight, and was at a loss now that he couldn't have one.

"What about Lo?" Ianto asked, into the silence. "Is his future still set?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Jack said. He had a point.

"Then take this back," Ianto said, closing the folder and handing it across to him. "I'll have my year. That'll have to be enough. How do I make sure...?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't know. Just walk carefully."

"So very helpful," Ianto said.

"I'm sorry -- "

"Don't fucking apologise," Ianto snapped. "I'll be your good soldier and I'll save your life, Jack, because I like Lo and what happened to him shouldn't have happened to anyone. I will make him what you are. I'll go back to my time and smile at you like I don't know I'm dying and I'll die when I'm supposed to die, because there are things that are more important. You taught me that. So don't apologise to me."

Jack closed his mouth.

"Now leave," Ianto added, and he was actually stunned when Jack stood and tucked the folder under his arm and left, swiping his porterminal for payment as he walked out the door. Ianto sat over his coffee for a while, then bent his head and rested it in his hands.

What the hell could possibly happen on Eden Two that would set him adrift from predictable time? All he did was eat and swim and have sex.

He got up from the table and went back to the grocer's. Lo wanted some laal fruit, and Ianto had the idea that fried newtatoes would go well with another round of fish.


	8. Chapter 8

Lo knew, in their last days at the beach house, that something had happened to Ianto. He didn't think it was him, or the night they'd had with Tatia. Ianto had said the confession about Gray would change nothing, and Lo took him at his word. Ianto still smiled at him, laughed at his dancing, fucked like nothing had changed, but something had. When he thought Lo wasn't looking, he was quiet. Contemplative.

He mostly shrugged it off. Maybe Ianto was just regretting that they couldn't stay longer, reluctant to return to Quantico. Reluctant to go back because every day was one less day before Ianto went home, and something about Ianto's home bothered him deeply.

Lo tried to distract him, too. He coaxed him out into the waves and showed him how to spear-fish, admiring the way Ianto's shoulders tensed and smoothed when he threw the javelin, missing every time. Fishing was like breathing to Lo, even after years away from home, and he couldn't comprehend that Ianto didn't know where to throw. He teased him about it, and Ianto retorted drily that he could buy a fish if he wanted one, and then promptly cut himself on the sharp edge of the blade.

"Shit," Lo swore, grabbing Ianto's arm and pressing his palm against the long bloody streak on the inside of it. "They're not toys, you know."

"Well, I know now," Ianto said, hissing through his teeth. Lo pulled him back onto land, disregarding the javelin left floating in the waves, and walked him to the house with his hand still wrapped tightly around the wound. When they reached the kitchen he eased his grip, and fresh blood oozed out.

"Fucking hurts," Ianto grunted, around deep breaths probably meant to ease the pain. Lo could see enough of the wound to know anyone else would be screaming. He picked up a towel and pressed it to the edges of the cut.

"Hold that there," he said, and ransacked the bathroom for the first-aid kit he'd seen earlier, somewhere -- there, with a half-empty bottle of skin bond and a roll of old-fashioned wrapping. Not a single block-spray to be found; he'd been hoping for some nerve blockers to kill the pain.

When he returned, Ianto was easing the towel away, inspecting the wound. Lo pulled his arm out gently until it was straight, though it made Ianto seethe swear words.

"Hold still," he ordered, touching the skin-bond nozzle to the start of the cut. He'd done a bit of this in the 43rd, enough to know what he was doing; he drew a straight, even line of bond and then looked up at Ianto's face. Ianto mirrored his move expectantly, which was when Lo clamped both hands around his arm and _squeezed_.

Ianto did scream then, a brief yelp bitten off halfway through.

"Sorry," Lo said, keeping the pressure firm. The bond needed fifteen seconds to set. By the end of it, Ianto was panting, his skin a dangerous grey shade, but his eyes were a little clearer than they had been.

"You are such a danger to yourself," Lo said affectionately, letting go of Ianto's arm. The other man pulled it back against his chest and doubled over it. He rubbed Ianto's back, soothingly. "You'll be fine. Inhale."

Ianto breathed in and out, easing off eventually, the tension slowly dropping away.

"Worst is past," Lo said, though he was worried about the pallor that hadn't yet left Ianto's skin. "Let me bandage it?"

Ianto held his arm out again, hesitantly, and Lo ran the wrapping under the tap, wetting it so that it would shrink and stick properly. When Ianto was swathed wrist to elbow in fast-drying wrapping, Lo went to the cold-box and brought him a jar of tik juice.

"Drink this," he ordered. Ianto sipped it, and pink began to spread back into his face. Lo breathed an internal sigh of relief. "Do you think you need hospital?"

Ianto let out a shaky breath. "Do you?"

"No -- wound was clean, got you treated, but if you feel sick we can go," Lo said.

"Are they likely to do anything else?" Ianto asked.

"Take off the bandage, rip out the bond, and replace it," Lo said. Ianto visibly shivered. "But they'd give you nerve blockers."

"I'll take my chances," Ianto said.

Which proved to be a mistake, in the end.

They left Eden Two the next day, catching the hoverbus into town and eating a hasty breakfast before Lo lifted them off and broke through the atmosphere. He could tell space hadn't lost its thrill for Ianto yet; the other man watched with brilliant bright eyes as the planet faded behind them and the stars streaked past. Lo wondered idly if he couldn't teach Ianto to pilot, tempt him into staying in the fifty-first. Surely, with Ianto's knowledge of ancient Earth culture, he would be a benefit to the Time Agency, and he was flexible enough that he would make a good agent, at least as Lo imagined they qualified agents. A daydream, nothing more, but a nice one -- Lo Boeshane and Ianto Jones, drifting through time, and Ianto would understand Lo's mission to find Gray. Ianto already did.

"I think I'll sleep, some," Ianto said, once they were in deep space.

"Sounds good," Lo said. "I have studying to do."

Ianto gave him a dry look.

"What? It's not an official holiday unless you do all your studying at the last minute," Lo said. Ianto smiled at him and ducked into the back of the ship. A few minutes later Lo heard him sigh happily as he fell asleep. Whatever was eating at Ianto, it couldn't be so very awful.

Ianto slept a lot on the trip home, while Lo studied or cooked or checked the instruments to be sure they were still on schedule. It should have tipped him off, but it didn't, and when they landed back at Quantico Station he just walked Ianto to the library, kissed him, thanked him for the holiday, and went to his own quarters to make sure nothing had exploded in his absence. On the way he met Myles, and ended up going to _her_ quarters for tea and excited talkings-over of what they'd done (Myles was impressed by Ianto and Tatia; Lo wanted to know everything about her visit home) with the result that he didn't get back to his own quarters until long after lights-out.

He hadn't been in bed for half an hour when his porterminal buzzed; he ignored it at first, but it buzzed again until he sat up and plugged it into the wall, activating the scroll screen.

Ianto's face appeared on it, flushed, eyes bright. Lo felt the first vague stirrings of worry.

"Ianto?" he asked. "Forget something in my bag?"

"I think I'm dying," Ianto said. Lo tensed. Ianto laughed shrilly. "I think I -- no, I know I'm dying, you told me, we're all dying, but I think I might. I don't." He trailed off into confusion. "Lo?"

"Ianto, what's going on?" Lo asked, leaning closer.

"You said I was going to die," Ianto said. "We all are, you know."

He laughed again, the same high irrational laugh. Lo clenched his hand against the wall.

"Ianto, listen to me," he said, because something was very wrong. "You're not dying. Stay there. I'm going to send someone to help you, okay?"

"No help for me," Ianto replied.

"Okay, whatever, Ianto, just sit down and stay there," Lo urged. "Ianto, I mean it."

"I just wanted you to know," Ianto said.

"Ianto, sit down right now and stay there," Lo ordered. Ianto looked behind him at the chair nearby. Lo watched as he walked unsteadily towards it and almost fell into it before settling himself. Then he looked around, confused.

"Stay there," Lo repeated, and cut the connection. He dialed the emergency medical number and got the desk nurse almost immediately.

"Mr. Jones is sick," he said, before the nurse could even open his mouth. "He's in his quarters. He called me, raving about dying. He's not well."

The nurse was already keying in an emergency code, he could see that.

"I have a medic on the way," he said.

"Thank you," Lo said, and logged off. He could run to the library and probably beat the medics there, but he didn't have a key and would only be in the way. Instead he tucked his porterminal into his pocket, pulled on a uniform shirt, and ran for the MedBay.

***

Admiral Brian Levy -- né Jack Harkness, né Lo Boeshane -- was a man with power.

He'd never actually got used to having power or enjoying it, not in a massive sort of way; he still loved a good con and the control that could give you, but he was out of the small-time game and the power to decide the fate of a squadron or the twist of time wasn't something he particularly liked. Still, someone had to do it, and he was good at it.

When he walked down a hallway on a Fleet ship, people saluted. Aides rushed to assist him, and officers tried to impress him. At the Time Agency it was a little different; they were narcissists, a frequent defence mechanism for a time traveller, but they held him in the sort of casual awe that a gang of rogues held for a pirate captain -- awe and the sense that, one day, they'd be gunning for him. Well, let them try; guns didn't especially scare Brian Levy.

At Torchwood, he was respected and mostly left to his own devices, which was its own sort of honour. Torchwood agents were inquisitive by nature, and were feared the galaxy over; to be marked out as an untouchable among them was certainly unique.

Levy was at Torchwood, reviewing their recent eyes-only research on the few Flyer bodies they'd recovered and dissected, when the call came through. An urgent call from Quantico Station, not from Ianto Jones (half-expected) or from someone concerned by Lo Boeshane's progress (occasional; he'd had some interesting conversations with Kraf), but from the medical bay.

"I don't mean to interrupt your work, sir," the medic said, looking deeply nervous at addressing an Admiral. "But you're listed as next-of-kin to Ianto Jones."

Levy set the papers aside quickly. "Has something happened?"

His strap began to beep. He silenced it without looking at it.

"He's developed an infection, sir, from an injury he took on holiday. He's delirious, high fever, and we'd like to administer treatment that we need authorisation for."

No wonder his strap had gone off.

"What can you do now without being too invasive?" he asked. The medic stared at him.

"I don't know if you understand, Admiral. We can have him back on his feet in a few hours, we just need permission to use internal repair modules."

"Can you get him through it without that?" Levy asked.

"We can keep giving him fluids, inhibitors to lower his fever, anti-infection injections, but the modules -- "

"He's temporally displaced. I can't conscientiously turn contemporary technology loose in a body from three millennia ago," Levy replied.

"Sir, he may die."

"You'll have to run that risk, medic. No permit given. Do everything you can for him without the modules. If he starts to worsen, contact me personally. Code twelve alpha twelve."

"Yes, sir," the medic said, looking confused and angry. Levy cut the connection and tapped his strap in one fluid motion.

Kara's face appeared in the holoprojection; she was his handler at the Agency. "It's Jones," she said. "The flux is increasing."

"That's because he's dying of an infection in the Quantico Station MedBay," Levy told her. "I just took positive action. Check the numbers again, the flux should be leveling out."

She turned away for a minute, talking to him while examining something he couldn't see. "Well, for a given value of level. He's still in flux."

"Numbers not quite so wild?"

"Nosir."

"Good, that means I made the right choice." Levy chewed on his lip. "I'd better go back and see him. There has to be something I can do. Put the Centre on it, would you?"

"All it'll give you is probabilities, you know that, right?" she asked.

"Well, I've played the odds before." It was true. They were still talking about the job he pulled in 2250, the one three other agents had failed at.

"You do seem to be the lucky one. I'll be in touch," Kara said, and disappeared from the holo.

Levy allowed himself one minute of quiet and peace, by the clock. For a full minute he sat there, calming his heart, breathing deeply, free of care, free of responsibility. Long ago, the second time he'd gone mad, he had learned to quell the madness by taking himself out of time. Very few disasters couldn't wait one minute for a man to catch his breath.

When the minute was up, he gathered his files and locked them away, pulled his porterminal out of the desk, and walked out of the little office they kept for him deep in the heart of the Torchwood Prime research station. Up and up and up he went, through server rooms and workrooms, past laboratories and libraries and the clean, orderly desks of the field agents. And where he went, the whispers, as always, followed.

He encountered Barkley lounging at his desk near the entryway, talking with a fellow-agent; Barkley was nominally in charge of the Boeshane file, but in reality that meant he went where Levy told him to go and turned his information over and didn't ask many questions. He was terrifying-looking, Barkley was -- pale and white-blond with dark eyes, some kind of genetic anomaly, perhaps part-alien, Levy hadn't ever inquired. He was good at debriefings, good at getting people to talk without laying a hand on them, very obedient and very intelligent (the intelligence made the obedience suspicious, but Levy had a soft spot for con men and liars).

In reality, off the job, Barkley was also gentle, shy and solitary; he had trouble making friends and kept three well-trained, much-beloved dekkits as pets. After Levy had announced the war was over, Barkley had taken him back to his home and given him a good meal, let him play with the dekkits, and offered his bed as well.

Barkley straightened off the desk when he saw Levy, giving him an even smile.

"I hear there's trouble at Quantico," he said. Good Christ, news traveled fast.

"Not for our little man," Levy replied.

"Good-oh. Need me?"

"Thanks Barkley, not on this one. You might get a message from me in a few days -- make sure the Jones file is handy."

"Can do. I'll keep an ear out," Barkley replied. Levy kissed him, sweet and quick, and let him go back to his chat. He made for the shuttle bay as fast as he could, signing Amelia out almost without stopping, filing a flight plan that was not the one he intended to take.

"Good afternoon, Admiral," Amelia said, as he climbed into her cockpit. "I've missed you."

"Sorry, sweetheart, I know I don't treat you right," he replied.

"All systems are within normal parameters, so I'd say you treat me just fine," she said. "Where are we headed?"

"Quantico Station."

"Lo Boeshane or Ianto Jones?" she asked. Levy closed her up, snug inside his beautiful ship.

"Ianto Jones this time. We'll take it slow out of Torchwood Prime and then once we're around the far side of the moon we'll punch it."

"Bold," Amelia said. "Ready when you are, Admiral."

_Slow_ , when you had a ship like Amelia, was relative. They screamed out of Torchwood Prime in a showy flash of metal, darted around the moon, and accelerated so fast Levy had a moment of concern that they'd hit something before he could get the long-range nav system up.

"Amelia," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes once they were secure, "do you ever wish you could touch people?"

"It's not really in my programming, Admiral."

"It is in mine," Levy murmured.

"Well, naturally. Evolution demands a perpetuation of the bloodline, which in your species is conveyed through sensation. I perpetuate through new software upgrades and beta-testing support of my shipyard," Amelia said. Levy cracked open an eye.

"Do you know, Amelia, I think I could fall in love with you," he said.

"It'd be very unsatisfying," she replied.

"Wouldn't be the first time. How long until we reach Quantico?"

"Three days, I think."

Amelia's class of ship was meant for short hops and dogfights, and didn't even have a toilet, let alone a bed. "You'd better put me in stasis, then. Put in for leave with all the appropriate people, and wake me up if anyone from Quantico calls, or if Torchwood sends anything flagged above level seven," he told her.

"Of course, Admiral," she said. The pilot's chamber filled with gas, and Levy inhaled deeply. Stasis would keep him steady until they landed; supposedly the brain couldn't even function in deep stasis, but Levy found he always dreamed. Dreams were valuable, in his line of work. One didn't get very many nice ones.

***

The last thing Ianto really remembered clearly was landing at Quantico, and even then he was a little hazy on the details. He remembered Lo waking him for landing, and them disembarking; after that a white haze washed over everything until the next thing he knew he was lying in a bed not his own (nor Lo's), covered in blissfully cool white sheets, watching through a doorway as medics and nurses went about their rounds.

Nothing hurt, precisely, but that was no indication, not with the nerve-blocking drugs they had here. His head felt thick, but he didn't feel the strange minute-to-minute disconnect he had when they'd put him on morphine, back after the shooting. He was still taking a slow self-inventory when one of the medics put her head in and smiled.

"Welcome back to reality," she said, leaning in the doorway. "Feeling all right?"

"Sort of," he ventured. She nodded.

"Sort of is about what I'd expect. You had a nasty brush with an infection -- next time, I don't care how much you like the kid, make him take you to a hospital," she said. Ianto frowned. "Your arm." She pointed at his right arm. There was a long narrow strip of nuskin attached to it. "It was infected, and you had a fever for a while. Cadet Boeshane explained everything to us."

Ianto could imagine how Lo had reacted to that. "Is he here?"

"He's in class. I'll call him, if you like."

"No..." Ianto struggled to sit up, found his head was steady. He studied his arm. "Well. Tell him I'm okay. Was he worried?"

"Just about to death. He and Cadet Myles haunt the place when they're not in classes. You've had other visitors too," she said, pointing to a strange bowl of purple things on the table. Ianto wrote them off as something to ask about later. "I'll send in someone to explain what's happened, I don't imagine you recall much."

"Thank you," he said. When she left, he looked around for his porterminal and found it lying on the table next to the bed. There were six hundred new messages, most of them seemingly on the theme of "Get well soon, Mr. Jones!"

"Ah, bollocks," he said, and put it away. He could look at them later.

The medic who eventually came in to talk to him was a young man, Medic Bil-Kirmann, who Ianto thought he recalled was partnered with one of the nurses. He sat down, smiled at Ianto, and said, "You're lucky Cadet Boeshane and Admiral Levy didn't get you killed."

Ianto frowned at him. "That's not a great way to start a medical debriefing."

"Sorry, I have to get this out there. Cadet Boeshane tells us you cut your arm on a fishing javelin while on holiday, and he doctored it with what was probably expired skin-bond and standard bandaging. In and of itself, he did an excellent job, and I can't fault his emergency skills. He says you declined hospital?"

"Yes," Ianto said.

"And you were fine for a few days, so the antiseptic properties of the skin bond must have worked for at least a little while. Do you remember returning to Quantico?"

He did; he remembered being very tired. "Yeah. I don't remember much after that."

"Around 0030 you called Cadet Boeshane and told him you thought you were dying," Bil-Kirmann said.

Oh, god.

"I'm sure that went over well," Ianto said.

"We're lucky you called anyone. Cadet Boeshane notified us and we were able to get you back here pretty quickly, but you had a high fever. We had him in to explain what happened and then contacted your next of kin about emergency measures. Generally in cases like this -- sorry, I hope this isn't something you know, I can't be sure given your...history...anyway, we would inject you with a number of small devices that would internally repair the damage, destroy the infectious agents, and lower your fever. It's a harmless procedure; the devices stay in your system for a couple of years and then eventually get flushed away. Admiral Levy refused treatment for you because he was anxious about how they'd interact with your body. Mr. Jones, I have to make this clear, there was no danger. So unless this is a religious belief you hold, I can't see why the Admiral put you through three days of more primitive treatment for no reason."

"Levy usually has his reasons," Ianto said. The medic narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, well, they talk about Levy," he said darkly, and then continued before Ianto could ask him what he meant. "You're out of the woods now -- you'll need rest and nutrients for a day or two, you should bounce back quickly -- but it was a close thing. Now that you're capable of making your own medical decisions, I want to urge you to accept some immune-boosting treatments."

"Like what?" Ianto asked.

"You're not immune to diseases we generally inoculate for. That's not an issue, because the inoculation prevents the spread, so you're not in any particular danger. That said, your immune system functions _way_ below a fifty-first century person's would. I want to give you a broad-spectrum immunisation to boost your system, and I'd also like to give you a strong single-time antibiotic just to make sure the infection doesn't come back. Both will make you much less susceptible to this kind of thing in the future."

He took a small clear tube out of his pocket and waggled it. "Could do it right now, if you want. It doesn't hurt."

Ianto nodded, and was about to roll up his sleeve for an injection, but instead the man simply pressed the vial against the skin of his hand, tapping the top. His palm tingled for a minute. Fifty-first century medicine. Couldn't beat it.

"Congratulations. Now you won't catch Neopolio or Star Twelve Influenza," he said.

"The world is my oyster," Ianto informed him somberly. Bil-Kirmann laughed.

"Rest and relax a little. Your young friends would probably like to see you, if you're up to it. We've told Boeshane you're all right, per your wishes, so most of the station probably knows by now."

Ianto smiled. "I'd like to see him, if he comes in."

Bil-Kirmann checked the clock on the wall. "Nearly lunchtime. Should be here any minute. I'll send a meal in with him," he said, and left.

Ianto felt an odd tremor, a frission of something -- not internal, like something brushing across his skin, all over. He put it down to some reaction to the immunisation, and started working his way through the get-well emails and the spam announcements from the station and the updates from the instructor who'd taken over his library duties while he was sick. He was down to four hundred messages when a shadow appeared in the door.

Lo had a tray in his hands, and banged his elbow against the frame to knock; Ianto looked up and smiled.

"Come in," he said, gesturing Lo forward. "They said you'd come."

Lo looked tired, and worried, and frightened. "I wasn't sure you'd want to see me."

Ianto accepted the tray and looked down at the food, suddenly ravenous. "Look," he said, and spooned a bite of thick soup into his mouth, "we've done the guilt thing already, and the forgiving thing, and I'm starving." He took another bite. "So I'm going to tell you it wasn't your fault, we're going to blame my crap twenty-first-century immune system, and you're going to stop looking like you want to fling yourself off a cliff for me."

Lo bit his lip. "Uh. Can we do that?"

"Mmm-hm," Ianto said, around another spoonful of soup. "I don't blame you, you blame yourself, get over it."

Lo smiled, like sun emerging from behind a cloud. "Really?"

Ianto nodded.

"Thanks," Lo said.

"Whatever," Ianto replied, dipping bread into the soup. "How are you?"

"Better than you," Lo told him.

"Classes?"

"Ehn."

Ianto raised his eyebrows.

"I'm doing fine," Lo protested.

"Good. I -- " Ianto stopped, because there was someone else in the doorway.

Oh, _bollocks._

Lo leapt to attention, back ramrod straight, chin lifted. Ianto reluctantly put down his bread.

Admiral Brian Levy stood in the doorway, looking larger-than-life the way Jack always did, looming in his service-grey coat. What _was_ it with the coats? Lo didn't wear coats. Lo didn't even like wearing clothing if he didn't have to.

"Admiral," Ianto said warily.

"At ease, Cadet," Jack said. Lo dropped to parade rest.

"You'll forgive me if I don't get up," Ianto drawled. Lo's eyes were darting back and forth between him and Jack.

This couldn't be good. This was the kind of thing you saw in films right before time folded on itself and Dave Bowman was reborn as a cosmic star-child. (Ianto hadn't even liked that film; Jack had loathed it.)

He could hear the gears grinding in Lo's head.

Jack moved into the room, stepped to one side, jerked his head at the door.

"I'll speak with you in a minute," he said to Lo, who marched smartly out and closed the door behind him. Ianto was prepared for a couple of reactions: anger, reproach, disappointment. He was not prepared for Jack to reach out and stroke his arm gently.

"You okay?" he asked. "I got in five minutes ago, they said you were lucid."

"Stupid mistake," Ianto told him. "Shouldn't have let Lo teach me to fish."

"When you came here, they called me."

"They said," Ianto replied.

"I couldn't let them put that tech into you. You'd have carried it home."

"It's all right, Jack."

"The minute I got the call, your temporal flux hit a scale we haven't seen since the Medusa Cascade rift was sealed. I mean, fireworks," Jack told him, sitting down. "I'm kind of shocked one person generated that much energy. Even I don't, and I'm a known causer of mischief."

"Some things never change," Ianto said. "Is it done now?"

"No. Settled back down, but not done. The thing is..." Jack shook his head. "We can't let you go on like this. It's too dangerous. I think we have to send you back ahead of schedule."

Ianto reached almost unconsciously for his own face, touching the nuskin bandage there -- this one, they'd thought, might take, and it seemed to have. He could feel more than just pressure when he touched it, actual sensation. He was, as far as it mattered, healed. And anyway, that wasn't why he'd come here.

"What about Lo?" he asked softly. Jack glanced at the door.

"He's had more than he would have," he said. "He'll miss you. He'll survive. I did."

Ianto nodded. "He has friends. Kraf likes him."

"Kraf thinks he's going to be an Admiral of the Fleet someday, if he doesn't get his damn self killed first," Jack said. Ianto looked at him. "We've had words."

"What about the library?"

Jack waved it off. "Unimportant."

"It's important to me."

"We'll find someone. Steward can do it. Ianto -- " Jack looked frustrated, almost afraid. "Are you really ready for that? Going back? You know what's going to happen."

"Bigger things, Jack."

"I'm going to miss someone calling me Jack." He bent and kissed Ianto's forehead, then straightened again. "I should go. I'll tell Lo he's not in trouble. Do you want me to tell him you're leaving?"

Ianto shook his head. "I'll do it."

"Good soldier. You were right," Jack said, and he was gone.

A few minutes later, Lo came in again. Ianto watched him sit hesitantly by the bed, watched him put out a hand to rest it on the sheets. He took Lo's hand in his own and decided he wanted this for just one more hour.

"Admiral says I did a good job," Lo said. "He says I wasn't to know. I believe him."

"He can be persuasive," Ianto agreed.

"Are you lovers?" Lo asked. "I mean -- you don't have to say, but -- you get sick and an Admiral drops everything and runs to Quantico? He must -- you must know each other. He must care about you."

"No," Ianto said, and didn't really feel it was a lie. "Levy and I aren't lovers."

"Okay," Lo said. "Are you tired? I can go. But I don't have classes again until fourteen hundred."

"No, I'm not tired," Ianto said. "Stay. You can go when you have class. Tell me how you are."

Lo rested both hands on the bed, curled around one of Ianto's, and spoke quietly, calmly, like he would to a stray animal -- or, Ianto realised, to a wounded colleague, a fellow soldier. Soothing noise not meant to bother or force too much thought, just to fill the silence. Ianto closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of it, and barely felt Lo bend to kiss him on the forehead, just where Jack had, when he left for classes.

***

Lo was grateful, really, to Admiral Levy. When Ianto fell sick and word got out (as everything always does) that he'd been on holiday with Lo, then everyone who had suspected when Ianto looked after him when the war ended suddenly now _knew_. Lo didn't mind people knowing that he was sleeping with one of the staff, he certainly didn't mind people knowing that he was Ianto's special pet lover, but it had been a sort of secret, a private thing to treasure. As much as he might have wanted to tell everyone, there had been an appeal in that.

Now, though, there was much bigger news -- Mr. Jones was sick and an Admiral had come to see him, Admiral Levy, a hero of the war. Even if there was limited fascination in the idea of Mr. Jones having such a prestigious friend (or a lover? they whispered), the fascination with Admiral Levy was a thing in itself. Cadets told each other where he went, warned each other he was coming, specially shined their boots and made sure they looked extra-smart. Lo was forgotten, precisely as he should be.

Lo, who should have been paying attention in Military Law, spent the time instead musing on the strange tangle. There were his own dealings with Admiral Levy, who had brought him here, to consider. Ianto knew him, meant something to him either in a personal or professional capacity; Admiral Levy was a Time Agent, and Ianto had fallen through time. Lo was destined to follow the Admiral's footsteps, promised a place with the Time Agency himself. It was some kind of interconnected mess, but Lo couldn't see the strands of it clearly yet.

That evening, nearly every student on the station chose to dine in the mess hall, and they weren't disappointed. Ianto, pale but steady, walked into the room to mild applause; when the Admiral entered, fifteen hundred young men and women leapt to their feet at attention.

The Admiral, Lo thought, looked amused.

"At ease," he said, into the expectant silence. The students fell to parade rest. The Admiral chuckled. "Look, unless you're going to eat standing up, sit down," he added. There was a smattering of laughter, and the students sat as the Admiral walked to the dispensing counter and took the same food they were eating, carrying the tray to the staff table and sitting (another wave of quiet murmurs) with Mr. Jones and Instructor Kraf.

"Isn't he gorgeous?" Myles asked, tracking the Admiral.

"You just like a man in uniform," Lo said, elbowing her.

"Well, I'm in the right place for it," she said, elbowing back. "Seriously, though. He could have been a film star."

"There's a rumour he was," Ned, across the table, leaned forward. "One of my brothers says he knows a bloke who saw a sex film with a man he swears looks just like the Admiral."

"Huh," Myles said, still studying the Admiral, who had kindly sat facing the room, so that everyone could see him grinning and talking with Kraf and Ianto. Ianto looked -- well, not annoyed, but quiet, like he wasn't quite sure what to make of the Admiral.

"Do you think they're lovers?" Ned asked, glancing around. "Him and Mr. Jones, I mean."

"Ianto said they're not," Lo said. Myles and Ned looked at him. "Well, I asked. He said no."

"Mr. Jones is from three thousand years ago. Could be the Admiral's his million-times-great grandson," Myles laughed.

"They don't look anything alike!" Ned added, laughing too. Lo smiled and kept eating. He wasn't watching the Admiral's face, like fifteen hundred other pairs of covert eyes. He was watching his hands. He touched Ianto an awful lot -- to get his attention, to make a point, to draw him into the conversation. If they weren't lovers now, Lo decided, they had been at some point. It looked like the Admiral wanted to be again.

Which was why Lo memo'd Ianto rather than simply going to his room, that night. _Can I see you?_ So that if Ianto was entertaining the Admiral, he wouldn't intrude. Or, he thought with a vague sense of delight, perhaps he could be invited along.

_Yes,_ Ianto replied. _I have to talk to you._

Lo wasn't sure whether to worry or be pleased. Either way, it didn't matter; he trotted along the hallway and endured one or two catcalls from Cadets near the corridor that led to the library.

Ianto was sitting down when he walked in, stretched out on the chair, head resting at an angle, throat bared deliciously. Lo leaned against the door and smiled.

"Coming in?" Ianto asked, opening his eyes and turning his head.

"Thinking about it," Lo said. "What's in it for me?"

Ianto smiled and held out his hand. Lo went, settling into his lap, straddling his thighs. He kissed him, licked a little at his throat.

"You said you had to talk to me," he said, sitting back a little.

"I do," Ianto replied, looking -- perhaps involuntarily -- towards the bedroom. Lo followed his gaze. There was a small travel bag in the doorway, smaller even than the one he'd brought to Eden Two. Lo glanced back at the bookshelf behind Ianto and saw that the little car he'd given him was missing.

"You're going home," he said. Ianto nodded. "Sooner than you thought. That's why the Admiral's here?"

"I'm sorry, Lo," Ianto said. "He thinks it's dangerous. He'd be the one to know. And anyway, I'm mostly healed."

"When?" Lo asked.

"I don't know. Sometime in the next few days, probably. There's someone coming for me, but we're not sure when."

"There's a time-traveler coming for you...but you don't know when?" Lo asked, incredulous.

"He's not very precise," Ianto said, and put his fingers to Lo's lips. "I can't tell you anything else. I wish I could, but you -- _you_ \-- can't know."

Lo wondered idly if the time-traveler coming to take Ianto away was himself. Could be, after all. That would be wonderful, to give Ianto up now, no recriminations, no regrets, and to find him a few years away, and take him home.

"Don't be angry, Lo," Ianto pleaded, and Lo leaned forward so their foreheads were pressed together.

"You warned me you would go," he said. "It's all right, Ianto."

"Stay with me tonight?"

Lo laughed. "Try and get rid of me."

Even if he wouldn't be the one to fetch Ianto, even if he never saw Ianto again, the sudden idea of a joyful farewell appealed to him. A kiss goodbye with tongue. He loved Ianto, perhaps more than he would admit, but Ianto was just one of a thousand people out there that Lo could love, would love if he found them. Part of that was Ianto, and always would be.

"I'll never forget you," he whispered into Ianto's throat as they undressed, still in the chair, Ianto struggling out of his shirt and Lo rising up to get his trousers off, down past his knees without actually leaving the chair, a trick he'd learned in the 43rd.

"You will," Ianto said, but he was laughing. "It's all right."

"Will I see you again?"

"Can't say," Ianto told him, which meant _yes_ , didn't it. Lo bent down to reach into his pocket -- Ianto, poor bastard, kept losing his lube -- and came up again to Ianto's electric blue eyes, his smiling face. He pressed the lube against Ianto's chest and settled forward, grinding his cock against Ianto's belly.

"Here?" Ianto asked, skeptical. "Think you're that flexible, do you?"

"Try me," Lo said with a grin, and bit Ianto's earlobe. "Come on, Ianto. It's been three days."

Ianto laughed against his chest. "Three _whole_ days?" he asked lightly, but Lo drew back a little, looked him in the eye.

"You were sick," he said, quite serious now. "You were sick and sometimes you called for Jack. Sometimes you called me Jack. You called Myles Gwen when she came to visit."

Ianto was staring at him. Apparently nobody had told him.

"Jack was your boyfriend, the one you're going home to, wasn't he?" Lo asked. Ianto nodded. "He'd better fucking be good to you," Lo informed him.

Ianto ran a hand down Lo's body, throat to hipbone, studying the skin. "Yes, he was. Will be. I promise, Lo."

"Go -- good," Lo said, interrupted by a stuttery breath when Ianto, sneaky bastard, tucked his other hand behind Lo's ass and slid a finger in smoothly. He threw his head back, worked himself down on it, felt Ianto add another finger with _almost_ indecorous haste. Opening him up, distracting him maybe. Ianto had such lovely hands.

"Now," he urged, even though Ianto looked skeptical. Lo wanted -- wanted something more than just pleasure, wanted a little bit of hurt. To remember, because anyone could fuck him and make it good, but he decided when it was different, when it was more. He tugged at Ianto's wrist, knelt up over him, and held Ianto's shoulder down with one hand as he breathed, lowered, relaxed -- tried to take him inside, and it did hurt.

"Please," he breathed. Ianto bucked his hips up, seating them together, and Lo grunted in pain.

"Lo, I don't want to _hurt_ you," Ianto said, as Lo drew in air sharply and let it out in a huff. He pulled his knees up as much as he could, until his back was bent so he could kiss Ianto, and his legs were on either side of Ianto's stomach. Only his grip on Ianto's shoulder and Ianto's hands on his hips were holding him there; if Ianto let go, he'd fall.

"I decide," Lo said, getting used to the burn. He twisted a little, felt it rise up into something bigger -- bigger than him or them, something arcing between them. Ianto groaned against his chest.

Lo moved again, and a quick punch of pleasure overlaid the pain, especially when Ianto sucked one of his nipples into his mouth and wrapped his arm around his waist, still keeping him steady, so that his other hand could find Lo's cock. He tried to rise up, nearly overbalanced, and gripped Ianto's shoulder so tightly the other man grunted in pain.

"You -- you have to," Lo said, bending to lick sweat from Ianto's temple. Ianto nodded and raised his hips -- oh, good, yes, there -- and dropped again. Lo let go of his shoulder and held onto the back of the chair instead, digging his other hand into Ianto's hair.

Ianto thrust cautiously, until Lo tugged at his hair and growled, " _More_."

It was like letting go of his last support, or like grabbing hold of a live wire. Ianto thrust up hard, setting the pace like he always did, fast and rough this time. It felt good, even the pain, and he ignored the way he was almost doubled over, unable to control any part of this. He let Ianto fuck him until the burn subsided and then it _was_ just pleasure, moaning and rutting and touching.

This would be the last time. Even if Ianto didn't know when he would go, Lo knew instinctively, and it was more appropriate that it be here, hard and out of control, something he would remember. Ianto gasping his name as he came, letting him slip back so he could stroke his cock, holding him steady when Lo cried out and came hot on Ianto's stomach. Lo panted and pushed into Ianto's hand and nearly toppled off him, would have if not for Ianto's arm around his waist still.

He eased back to where this had begun, straddling him, and lifted Ianto's bent head to kiss his face.

"G'bye, Ianto," he said in his ear. Ianto nuzzled his shoulder gently.

"Goodbye, Lo," he said softly.

***

The Doctor who came for Ianto was not the same one that had brought him here, the grumpy elderly man with the kind granddaughter. It was the one Ianto thought of as Jack's Doctor, a skinny pinstriped streak of energy with wild brown hair and friendly eyes.

He showed up in the middle of the morning, the day after Lo had said his goodbye. Ianto hadn't seen Lo since, knew he wouldn't; Lo would stay away until he was gone, which was something Ianto could understand. He'd left goodbye messages for Myles and Blithe, Kraf and a few of his favourite students, and his bag was ready when Jack -- when the _Admiral_ \-- and the Doctor walked into the library.

"Ianto Jones," the Doctor said, sounding out the name like it was a pleasure just to say it, as he shook Ianto's hand. "I remember you now. I didn't before, funny how that works, but Jack just said I promised him, you know what Jack's like when he wants something, and probably I did -- "

The Admiral coughed. The Doctor didn't even notice.

"Anyway, I hadn't much else to do just now. Hmm," he added, peering at Ianto's face like the secret of the universe was written there. "Didn't get a good look at you during the whole....Davros...thing..." he seemed to falter, then brightened and continued. "Quiet type, eh?"

"Compared to you?" Ianto asked. The Doctor laughed.

"Ianto," Jack said. Ianto looked at him. Jack held out his hand. "Your bag."

He'd expected this. He passed the small satchel over to Jack, who searched it methodically. Nothing but clothing and the few non-edible items Jack had put in the backpack that he'd brought here in the first place.

"Sorry," Jack said, handing it back. "Had to check."

"It's fine," Ianto told him. He offered his hand, and Jack looked just a little bit broken when he shook it.

"Be good," Jack added, and kissed Ianto on the cheek. "Thank you."

Ianto nodded. The Doctor, who had stood by looking deeply uncomfortable, whistled idly.

"Right," Ianto said, turning to him. "Home, then?"

"Well, come along," the Doctor said, and there it was again -- the big blue box, standing there like it _belonged_ in a corridor outside the library. The one that had taken Jack from them once and taken Ianto from his home and now was bringing him back. 

Hopefully.

The Admiral had warned him about the Doctor and his tendency to "accidentally" end up in places that tempted one to have Adventures. Ianto had undergone quite enough Adventure recently; he had firm orders that if the Doctor landed them anywhere other than Cardiff, 21st Century, he was not to leave the box.

The interior was different to last time, more familiar from the video, dark browns and strange growths. There was the same bizarre furniture, this time an orange pilot's chair at the console. Ianto lingered in front of the control board, looking up at the long clear tube emerging from its centre.

"Now, Jack asked me to take you straight home," the Doctor said, already madly turning dials. Ianto felt so still, next to him, as if he were the only person in the universe who knew how not to move. The Doctor looked up, across the console. "But if you fancy, I know a great place to get a cup of cocoa in 1851..."

"No," Ianto said, still looking around. "Thank you, but I'd like to go home."

The Doctor peered at him. "Are you sure?"

Somehow he knew. Perhaps Jack had told him or perhaps he just sensed it, but he knew. And he was offering Ianto something like Jack had: an escape, a stay of execution. Prolonging the wait.

"I'm not for you, Doctor," Ianto said. He looked down at the console, drew his fingers along the edge. "I know what you do. Take humans, show them the universe."

"Sometimes it's tin dogs," the Doctor volunteered, but his voice wasn't quite steady.

"I'd like it, maybe," Ianto mused. "But I'm not meant for it. All this -- I was meant for Jack. I'm his, not yours. Can't slip that, now it's on."

The Doctor looked so sad. And very lonely. And then he smiled wide.

"Right then," he said, flipping a switch. The TARDIS groaned. "Twenty-first century Cardiff. I know when I'm beat."

Ianto didn't trust him, had no reason to trust him, but when the door swung open at the end of the journey he could see the Cardiff high street from the alley they'd landed in. He could smell Cardiff, saltwater and ozone and chip shops.

He was home.

"Guaranteed," the Doctor said, standing behind him in the doorway. "I've put you down right. Should be two, maybe three days after you left."

"You're not staying, then," Ianto said, looking over his shoulder. The Doctor shook his head.

"Lots to see," he replied. "Time's wasting. Have a good life, Ianto Jones, for as long as you have it."

Ianto nodded and stepped out of the TARDIS, into the dirty Cardiff alleyway. Wind blew his coat against his back as the TARDIS dematerialised behind him.

Well, if he wasn't in his own time, it was too late now.

Ianto pulled the buckled collar off his throat, careful to catch the little databox that had been tucked inside it -- surely even Jack wouldn't have begrudged him one small thing, a gift from a lover, but he couldn't be positive. Hiding it seemed safest, and he had learned from Jack that if you give someone something to search, they weren't likely to look closer anywhere else.

He switched the databox on, smiled at Lo's little toy car, and put it in the bag along with his collar before he stepped out into the street, holding up his hand for a cab. He had no money, but most of the drivers knew Torchwood (the SUV, if nothing else) and, when he said the name, the woman driving leaned around and grinned.

"Roald Dahl Plass then, eh?" she asked. Ianto nodded. She told him it was on the house.

It was sunny out, a nice day, and there were tourists and loungers on the Plass, but no sign of Jack and Gwen. Ianto glanced up at the CCTV camera and waved, just in case, but he doubted either of them were looking at it. He walked past the invisible lift, down the steps to the Tourist Office, and realised the door was locked.

"Of all the bloody things," he said, and sat down on the pier and laughed. Three thousand years separating him from his comrades, his boyfriend, and the last challenge to be overcome was a locked door.

After a minute, he heard the familiar sound of boots on pavement -- Jack's long stride, the clack of Gwen's heels -- and he turned and looked and there they were, coming down the stairs.

They were so...so very twenty-first century. Jack had a cup of Starbucks in his hand and a pair of Ray-Bans on, and Gwen was carrying a paper bag from the Chinese take-away up past the Millennium Centre. Neither saw him -- Jack was talking to Gwen, gesturing expansively, and Gwen was brushing windblown hair out of her face as she listened to him and checked her portermi -- her mobile phone. Ianto stood, resisting the urge to tug on a waistcoat he no longer wore, and the movement caught Jack's eye. Jack stopped dead in the middle of the stairs. Gwen, turning to face him, caught his look and pivoted around.

Then Gwen and Jack were both running, and Ianto stepped forward and let Gwen throw herself into his arms, hugging the life out of him before she laughed and cupped his face, leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Welcome home!" she cried, as Jack hovered nervously in the background, sunglasses discarded, a shadow on his face -- guilt? Anxiety? Strange emotions to see. Ianto squeezed her hand and pushed past her to Jack, who dropped the coffee (wasteful, he had wanted a sip of that) and put both his hands on Ianto's shoulders and kissed him like they were the ones who had just been gone for eight months, not him.

Ianto broke the kiss and nosed against Jack's collar, wanting to smell him, feel the rough scratch of his coat against his cheek. He inhaled and there it was, cordite and soap and what for all he knew were Jack's much bragged-about pheromones, though Lo hadn't smelled this way and neither had Admiral Levy.

"You've been gone a week," Jack said, his voice a vibrating rumble against Ianto's body. "How long for you?"

"Eight months," Ianto said, stepping back, trying to look at them both at once. "They threw me out early," he added, with a slight smile.

"What's this?" Gwen asked, lifting his right arm, pointing to the bandage taped there.

"Fishing accident," Ianto said. Gwen raised an eyebrow. Jack's thumb brushed the edge of it, his face contemplative.

"Are you okay?" Jack asked, ducking a little to catch Ianto's eyes with his.

"I'm fine. See?" Ianto turned his face to show off the scarless skin on his cheek and forehead. There was a network of small white lines below his ear, but in dim light you couldn't even see them.

"I'm sorry," Jack said, and Ianto gave him a confused look. "I'm sorry we sent you away."

He had forgotten, somehow, that this had been deliberate. That this man standing before him had known he was going and done nothing to stop it. But really what could he have done? He was like Lo -- not to blame, not to be punished.

"Don't be," Ianto said.

"Was it an adventure?" Gwen asked, grinning wide.

"Huge," Ianto informed her. "Epic."

"Well, come and tell us everything," she said, dragging him by the hand towards the tourist office. "You look very smart. I like the shirt. And you're so tanned!"

He had to be debriefed, he knew that, but once they were inside he went to the coffee machine and made himself a steaming hot cup, downing it with haste. Gwen and Jack watched, looking amused.

"Don't they have coffee wherever you went?" Gwen asked.

"Not proper coffee," Ianto replied, making himself another cup.

"Okay," Jack said, rubbing his hands. "Question time. Gotta do it," he added. Ianto nodded. "Then we'll get you home. Preliminary report today, you can work on something more detailed later. We'll redact what we need to."

_Like how I'm going to die in ten days,_ Ianto thought, but didn't say. He smiled at Jack instead.

***

Jack was eager, and he thought Ianto was too, to get the debriefing out of the way. Over Chinese (Ianto moaned with indecent pleasure at his first bite of cashew chicken in months) they worked out a rough timeline, a sort of short-form of Ianto's time away. He could tell Ianto was holding things back, but decided not to push; maybe he didn't want to mention them in front of Gwen, or couldn't say them for fear or disrupting the flow of time. Jack remembered patches of the time Ianto had come from, now, enough to know that the name _Lo Boeshane_ should come up and didn't.

By the time they'd finished, it was nearly the end of the day anyway. Jack sent Gwen home to Rhys, hooked the Rift alert system into his strap, and drove Ianto home. He could tell time-displacement when he saw it, but only in little things: the way Ianto had to remind himself to use doorknobs, and seemed momentarily perplexed by cars with wheels.

Inside, Ianto tossed his bag on the floor and pressed Jack back against the closing door hard enough to make it slam. Jack grinned and let him.

"Don't tell me you pined away for me the whole time," he said, between kisses.

"You know what happened," Ianto growled against his throat. Nicely assertive; his vacation in the fifty-first century had done him good.

"I remember some," Jack allowed. Ianto nipped him lightly. "Not all."

"You remember the beach house?" Ianto asked, stilling against him. Jack put an arm around his shoulders and slid his fingers up into Ianto's hair.

"I remember...somewhere warm," he said, because Ianto didn't deserve a lie that he remembered more. "Somewhere I was finally warm after being cold for four years. And a shy librarian who was really bad at fishing."

Ianto laughed, but he still didn't move. "Remember the firing range?"

Jack cast his mind back. Yes; kissing a dark-haired man he'd been teaching to shoot, cautious because the man was skittish, uncertain.

"Yes," he said.

"Do you remember Myles?"

It seemed very important to Ianto, knowing what was remembered. But the name brought up only the faintest association -- skilled hands on a console.

"Do you remember Tatia?" Ianto asked. For that name, there was nothing at all, and Jack felt despair rise in him -- he thought he was remembering, he tried so hard sometimes, but the names and faces began to blur --

"Jack," Ianto said, bringing him back to the present. He looked at Ianto carefully.

"I don't," he said. He could hear the sorrow in his own voice. "I'm sorry, Ianto, I don't."

"It's all right," Ianto said, pulling him away from the door. "I'll remind you."


	9. Chapter 9

Readjusting was hard.

It shouldn't have been, but in some ways it was more difficult for Ianto to return to his own time than it had been to live in the other. There was so much more freedom in that century than in this, and it wasn't just about sex -- people talked more openly, smiled at strangers, were easy with each other. It was like he'd had some kind of binding about his throat that had been lifted while he was gone, and now the binding was back, and it took him time to learn not to choke on it.

Jack helped, because Jack had never been bound that way, never let himself be bound. Gwen too, because Gwen was affectionate and friendly by nature, and not afraid to smile at strangers. It was still hard.

He found he missed his porterminal, and re-learning to use telephones instead of scroll screens was frustrating. Everything he saw he compared to what he had seen, and often found it wanting. The feeling would fade, he suspected, if he had time for it to fade in. But every hour was one hour closer to the ninth of July and his death sentence, the one weight he couldn't share with Jack because Jack couldn't know. He tried not to think about it. He'd had his year, or near enough anyway; he'd had two weeks by the seaside with Lo, and he had ten - nine - eight precious days with Jack and Gwen.

It was strange, too, that he had seen traces of Jack in Lo, and now saw traces of Lo in the man he'd become. Jack had the same quick, sharp smile that Lo had, when he was amused by something. The same childish enthusiasm too, tempered by maturity and experience but still there, and possibly the salvation of Jack's sanity. When Jack was hurt by small things, there was a little flicker of Lo's self-protective bravado in his posture. Ianto found that he felt almost indulgent towards Jack sometimes; much more sure of his footing with him, at any rate. Just as well. Now was not the time to back down, not with so little time left.

Quietly, when work was slow and whenever Jack wasn't there, he put his affairs in order. There wasn't much. Everything would be boxed up and stored by Torchwood anyway. He had a bit of savings, that could go to Rhi and her kids, and his server file at Torchwood was already tidily indexed and cross-referenced. He left a letter for Gwen and one for Jack, in his desk at home where Gwen would find them.

And then, with four days to go on his death sentence, some dickhead blew up the Hub.

Suddenly Ianto wasn't simply waiting -- he was fighting for his life, his and Gwen's and Rhys's and the child they hadn't even had time to celebrate properly. And Jack, Jack too, Jack's _survival_ , because Jack would always come back but what he came back to was cement and horror, and Ianto just couldn't fucking be having with that. He had painstakingly assembled the man Jack Harkness was to be, putting each piece of broken Lo Boeshane into place with care and no small amount of love, and that was his. Jack was his to protect.

He lost track of time, after the explosion. He wasn't sure what day it was, didn't care, didn't even think about the execution that was coming. Not even that morning, not until he and Jack walked into an empty room with an alien in a giant glass tank who fed on kids, little kids, another thing Ianto was not prepared to have anything to do with anymore.

Jack was making a speech of some kind when Ianto realised it was the ninth of July. And still there was no time to think of it, because he had a job to do. And then the lights went out, and the horrible deep voice of the 456 told them about the virus.

It took Ianto a second to realise that this was how he died. Here, facing the monster. As deaths went he supposed it was sort of pointless, but at least he was going to die with his boots on.

He waited for something -- a cough, a flush in his cheeks, the dizzy white mist that had heralded his last brush with delirium, but there was nothing. Jack ran; Ianto could hear him yelling futilely for gas masks, for help that was already too late. Jack returned and they tried threats, they tried gunfire; the glass was impermeable.

This was how Ianto Jones died.

Except...

He still didn't feel sick. Jack's face was flushed; he was panicking, and Ianto realised with a distant clarity that it wasn't Jack's fear of his own death, or on account of the screaming they could hear outside.

"We've gotta get you out of here," Jack said, grabbing Ianto by the shoulders. "I can survive anything -- "

"I feel all right," Ianto said, looking from Jack to the big glass cell.

"You breathed the air -- " Jack looked around wildly. "There's gotta be an antidote..."

The voice of the 456 rang in the chamber.

"You said you would fight," it taunted.

"Not him," Jack said. "I take it back, don't take him -- "

"Jack..." Ianto said, and Jack turned back to him. "Listen, it's all right, I knew..."

"No, no no no -- " Jack started, still clinging onto his arm, which was just as well since about that time Jack's legs gave out. Ianto went down with him, holding him, watching with confusion and adrenaline-driven _elation_ as Jack fell, and he didn't.

"It's all right," he whispered, stroking Jack's hair. "I love you."

"You'll die," Jack murmured.

"Maybe," Ianto said. "Don't talk."

But Jack was past talking, and after a minute more his pulse stopped threading under Ianto's palm.

He'd risked the world for Ianto, just now. Anything to avoid what Jack had blithely told him and he had blithely repeated to Lo: _Love them anyway, and take the hit when it comes._ When push came to shove, Jack hadn't been able to. Not this time.

Best think about what that meant later.

Ianto looked up at the cell. He didn't feel sick. He felt better than he had when he was dying of infection in Quantico's hospital, actually. Better than he had last time he'd had a _cold_.

He kissed Jack's lips, let the body slip out of his hands, and stood up again, cocking his head at the 456's tank.

"Well," he said consideringly. "This is interesting."

"You cannot win," the 456 bellowed, but it sounded uncertain. "The remnant will be disconnected."

A high whine of noise began, almost overwhelming, and Ianto wasn't sure what it was but he was sure it wasn't good. So he pressed his lips together and raised his gun -- not at the glass again, but at the power box that was routing electricity to the door locks. The door locks...on the tank.

After all, it didn't matter now. Everyone in the building was a walking corpse, even him.

He fired at the power box. The horrible screech stopped; the doors swung open, and there was a hiss of gas in the air.

"What," the 456 said. It sounded confused now. "What -- what -- what what what what -- "

There was no time to take Jack with him, much as he might want to. Jack would come back, he always did. Ianto bolted through the room, down the hallway ahead of the hissing, smoking gas, down the stairs ahead of it, down another hallway, running aimlessly really, because pretty soon the virus had to catch up with him. He ran past bodies -- nothing new there; in Canary Wharf he'd pulled Lisa over the tops of piled bodies, the dead he'd known in life -- until he saw movement.

There was a man in a hazmat suit.

"You fucker," he shouted, barreling into him, knocking him over. He straddled him, one hand on his throat, and he was inches from punching in the plexi faceplate when he stopped himself. That was murder, unnecessary murder, and there were too many dead already. "Where did you get it?"

"Don't kill me!" the man shrieked.

"Where did you get it?" Ianto demanded again, fetching up the oxygen tube and threatening to tug. The man flailed towards an open door, and Ianto rose and ran again. By god if the virus did somehow fail to kill him he wasn't going to die inhaling toxic gas.

There was a respirator there, just a strap-over number, but Ianto pulled it on and fixed it over his mouth. The tinned filtered air tasted like iron.

And then Ianto Jones didn't die.

Which was as perplexing to him as to anyone else, really.

***

When Clem started to scream, Gwen honestly thought he was going to die.

She could hear the bleating, buzzing noise, she suspected everyone could, but Clem clearly had a different reaction. He was clutching his ears, screaming, blood oozing around his fingers and down his face, and Gwen though, this is it, he's going to die in my arms.

Suddenly, as if someone had hit a mute switch, the squeal stopped. Dead. No fade-out, just ringing silence and the sound of Clem's harsh breathing. She eased him down slowly, a limp weight in her arms, but he wasn't unconscious. His eyes were open, unfocused. She took his pulse -- not exactly slow, but slowing.

"He's alive," she said, to the dark-haired woman who had held them both at gunpoint a few minutes before -- before seeing the tapes, before learning who the good guys really were.

"He's bleeding out his ears," the woman replied.

"Well, then bloody well help me," Gwen shouted. "Or do you only have guns and no doctors?"

One of the soldiers raised his hand. "EMT, ma'am," he said to the woman.

"Do what you can," she said. "Get him in the truck. We have medical facilities in London, that's the safest place for him. You," she added to Gwen, who reluctantly released Clem to the soldiers. "Ride with me. And bring that laptop!" she said, as she walked out. 

***

It took time to clear the gas and air from Thames House, to test if the air they would vent was still carrying the virus, to make sure when they opened it the outside world would be safe.

The troops went in first, clearing every room, reinforcements behind them picking up the bodies and carrying them to a canteen where there was space to lay them out. Medics checked each body, covering them with red blankets. The few civilians allowed entry wept or puked or simply stood and watched. The soldiers didn't have time for that; that would come later, some of them suspected.

The last room they cleared was the room with the glass tank, and the soldiers stopped outside to rock-paper-scissors for who would have to go first. The loser groaned but stepped to the front; rifles up, they entered.

"I'm not armed," a voice said. A man was kneeling in the middle of the floor, bent quietly over another man's head resting in his lap. Two handguns and a respirator lay nearby. "Don't shoot, I'm not armed."

Beyond him, the tank that had been fogged and filled with gas was clear now. Ichor and bile striped the inside of it. There was a slumped, oozing mass in the middle, all stumpy limbs and claws and horrible white eyes in misshapen heads. Near the door, but on the outside of the tank, was a very small body.

"I took him out," the man said, looking towards the body. "It seemed the respectful thing to do."

One of the soldiers knelt by the child's body, checked it, found it dead. She turned back to the others and shook her head. None of them wanted to inspect the contents of the glass tank very carefully.

Slowly, the man inched backwards, laying his companion's head gently on the ground. He stood up, arms raised.

"How'd _you_ survive?" a soldier asked.

"I don't know," the man said. "I just did."

"What's your name?"

"Ianto Jones. That's Captain Jack Harkness," he added, tipping his head at the man lying dead on the floor. "We work for Torchwood."

One of the soldiers stepped forward. "We need to collect the Captain's body, Mr. Jones."

Mr. Jones nodded, lowering his arms. "Can I help?" he asked.

"You'll have to go to decontamination," the soldier by the child's body said. "We'll look after him," she promised, as kindly as she could, because who knew how unbalanced this Jones was. "We'll make sure he's treated with respect."

Mr. Jones gave her an odd, twisting smile. "He'll appreciate that," he told her. "Please show me where to go."

One of the other soldiers took his arm in one gloved hand and led him away.

"LIVE ONE!" he yelled, leading Ianto down the stairs to the command post that had been hastily set up on the main floor. "GOT A LIVE ONE HERE. DECON AND MEDICS REQUESTED. COMING DOWN." 

A flurry of activity; gloved hands reached out, masked faces took Mr. Jones away. They shoved him into a portable chemical-accident shower with his clothes still on, sprayed him with antibiotic soap and any other chemical they could think of, made him strip and throw the sodden clothing into bags and wash again. Out of the shower, into a hastily-erected little tent where more gloved hands prodded at him and jabbed him with needles while the masked faces asked questions. Mr. Jones answered quietly, said he didn't know, wasn't sure, couldn't tell, hadn't anything to add. They gave him a blanket to dry himself on, a long-sleeved shirt and a set of scrubs to wear, a pair of military boots a size too large, and another blanket to wrap around his shoulders when he asked them, please, he was very cold.

He was handed over to another doctor, told to sit in a chair, sat quietly -- and then looked up sharply.

A dark-haired woman was passing through the medical staff, shoving anyone who got in her way, shaking off anyone who tried to restrain her. She came to Mr. Jones and knelt down in front of him.

"I thought you were dead," she said.

"So did I," Mr. Jones replied.

"Are you sick? Do they know?"

"No, I'm not," he said, and then smiled wistfully. "I'd kill for something to eat, though."

The woman laughed, holding both his hands in hers. "And a cup of hot coffee?"

"Yeah, that too."

"Ianto," the woman said, standing. "Where's Jack?"

Mr. Jones looked down the hall, towards the makeshift morgue. "Lying in state," he said quietly.

***

When Jack woke, it was with a soft breath, a reluctance that he didn't understand for a second, until he saw Gwen looking down at him.

The virus. The cell. Ianto, holding him, waiting with a kind of strange serenity for his own death.

Ianto was dead.

"Hi," Gwen said softly. She leaned back as Jack struggled upright --

And saw Ianto. Standing. Speaking with a man, a guard, twenty feet away. All around them were bodies, uniform rows of red-covered bodies, but Ianto wasn't one of them. Ianto was standing up. Talking to a guard. Wearing a hideous pair of green scrubs that didn't suit him at all. Drinking from a paper cup.

He gasped out something that he wanted desperately to be Ianto's name, groping blindly for Gwen's hand and finally finding it. Gwen helped him to his feet, hugging him tightly. The blanket was pooled on the ground, the red blanket, a pool of --

Ianto turned to look at them then, and a smile spread across his face. He said one last soft word to the guard, handed the man his empty cup, and hurried over, tugging on the scrub shirt as if it were his waistcoat. Ianto, straightening an imaginary waistcoat. Alive.

"What...?" Jack asked, confused, looking to Gwen for answers. She shook her head, hapless. "How...?" this time he asked Ianto, who looked faintly embarrassed.

"Very good questions," Ianto said. "Been asked them a lot in the last two hours."

Jack stumbled forward and threw his arms around Ianto's neck, almost toppling over before Ianto balanced them. He held on tightly, wondering if Ianto would drop dead in front of him if he let go, and knowing this would probably feature in his nightmares for some time to come.

"Natural immunity, they think," Ianto said in his ear. "They've taken about a gallon of blood. I have an immunogen."

"Very romantic," Jack replied. He heard his voice crack.

"Sorry, should I have brought flowers?" Ianto drawled. Jack drew back and kissed him, tried to kiss death away, knew he probably tasted like it himself, he always did after dying. The guards coughed and looked away. Ianto looked peeved.

"I was really getting used to people not being weird about this," he said, and disentangled himself from Jack. "There's no time right now. The 456 are not happy."

"Why aren't they happy?" Jack asked.

"Well, I killed their ambassador," Ianto said. "You wouldn't remember, you were busy being useless."

"I was heroically dead," Jack said reproachfully.

"Chop chop," Gwen added, giving Jack a shove towards the door. "World to save, aliens to kill."

***

Torchwood had become a magic word.

Torchwood, Ianto heard people whisper, had two men who survived the Thames House massacre. Torchwood was unkillable. Torchwood had blackmailed the Prime Minister into giving them the power to negotiate with the aliens, and then Torchwood had killed the alien ambassador. What next? Martial law, all of London under the command of Captain Harkness? What kind of men were they? If aliens were real, then why not immortals, and was that why Jones looked so young?

Torchwood got them out of Thames House, got them into Agent Johnson's facility -- and there was something precious there to Jack, Ianto knew because Jack disappeared for ten brief minutes and came back looking like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn't pay it much mind really, at the time; he was busy meeting with the facility's medical staff, getting up-to-date on Clem. Brain-dead wasn't precisely the term for it, but he breathed and had a pulse and that was about it. The doctors weren't very confident there was much going on upstairs, or ever would be again.

Aside from dubiously "saving" Clem's life, killing the ambassador of the 456 changed nothing, Ianto could see that now. All it had done was cut off their method of communication with the 456, and if the children weren't delivered up then tomorrow the world would die. But it had been a message they'd had to send, and perhaps the 456 would be more fearful now. Perhaps Jack's bluff would work.

Ianto didn't count on it. Jack was good. He wasn't save-six-billion-people-with-a-card-trick good.

The thing was, Agent Johnson and her troops, unnamed, unnumbered, were on their side now, and the Prime Minister was effectively neutralised, and so now it was Torchwood's job to fix the cock-up they had all started.

And Jack was, pretty clearly, out of ideas.

"We can't do anything if we can't communicate," he said, pacing angrily in the little canteen of this secret military facility hidden god-knew-where. "We can't communicate without bringing another one down; all they can do is yell at us through the kids. They're fucking invulnerable."

Ianto thought of the Jack he'd seen with the grey in his hair and the lines on his face, the Jack who had told the galaxy that the Flyers were defeated. He knew the Flyers had no vulnerabilities, and yet somehow they had been beaten by a blockade in a star system so far from here it would be three thousand years before anyone reached it.

"Jack," he said softly. Jack turned to him. "What happened at the Cineve Blockade?"

Jack stared at him as if he'd just said something obscene.

"When the war ended," Ianto continued. "I know -- I know you were part of ending it. What happened?"

Jack closed his eyes, tilting his face up a little as if he were trying to contain a fresh wave of rage.

"Is this important?" he asked tightly.

"It might be," Ianto ventured. "They were invulnerable too, weren't they?"

"What are you talking about?" Gwen asked. Jack held up a hand.

"Two years before the Blockade, I was taken alive," Jack said, breath short and fast. "When I escaped, I brought back intel on the functional biological weaknesses of the Flyers. I -- "

He stopped and gave Ianto a very direct look, and just for a moment it was Lo, not Jack, staring at him.

"I had inside information," Jack said, realisation dawning. "Inside...biological information. We don't need to blow them out of the sky. We just need to blow their brains out."

"Well, that's...catchy," Ianto observed, as Jack began to pace again.

"The 456 communicate on a radio frequency," Jack said. "Gwen says when they tried to kill Clem, they used a broadcast -- something that could hurt him even though he was synced with them."

"I heard it too. So?"

"So if it can hurt someone linked to them," Jack said, "it can hurt them. AGENT JOHNSON," he yelled, and she looked up from where she was speaking with the new shift of soldiers. "I need a broadcast rig, as powerful as you've got."

"We have an analysis room," she replied, gesturing behind her. "Recording, broadcast, reception."

Gwen gave Ianto a look that said she clearly was wondering about Jack's sanity. Ianto nodded -- _but what is there to do?_ \-- and rose when she did to follow him.

***

There were moments, for Jack -- sometimes on a case, sometimes just in the course of living a life far longer than it should have been -- where it seemed as if the entire universe became clear. He knew the way of everything, he understood everything, and he was pleased to know it. He feared the moment, as much as he loved it, because he was afraid someday that moment would come and never leave. In his elation and all-powerful truth-seeing he would destroy something, because nobody actually could see the entire truth of all. Not even the Doctor.

He had felt it when he'd given himself up to Abbadon, when he had died with John Ellis, when he'd stood for the first time on Flat Holm Island and envisioned what it could one day be.

Working on the transmission that had nearly killed Clem, he felt it again: such godlike clarity and precision. He could destroy them. All he needed was a conduit, some way to connect back to the 456 with enough strength to really make himself heard. All he needed was --

A child.

He could see, too, that this was how a god could break something fragile, because reports were coming in that the 456 were demanding the children now, now, now, and if they didn't get them as payment for the death of their ambassador they would unleash chaos on the Earth now, now, now, and somewhere out there, perhaps even in London, children were being _rounded up_.

The only child close enough was Steven.

He had given children to monsters before, for the good of the world. He had given children to _these_ monsters before, and to a fate much worse than death. He knew what it was like to fail to save someone -- not just the failures of Torchwood, but the moment when the monsters came no matter what you did, and took no matter how hard you fought. For just a second, he teetered on the edge, and then Gwen laid a hand on his arm.

"Jack, what is it?" she asked. His senses were so sharp her voice roared in his head.

Steven. Oh god, not Steven.

He could smell everyone in the room. He could hear soldiers breathing. And, in the background, he could hear Ianto speaking on his mobile in a hushed voice, inaudible except that Jack always heard Ianto (always now). Ianto was frightened, telling his sister that they were in danger, telling her to take Johnny and the children and run and hide, anywhere they could.

He'd made that call once. To Alice, when she was living in London, when Canary Wharf imploded. _Take Steven and run far away. Come to Cardiff, I'll protect you. Go anywhere, just run from London. Please, for the love of god, just this once do as you're told..._

The terrible clarity faded, and Jack felt a twinge of pain in his right arm. Once, a long time ago, he had mangled it almost beyond repair, running from the Flyers. He had survived war and time and torment to bring a daughter into this world and he had died for this world (for her) so many times. He'd let go of his brother's hand once; not ever again.

Which closed that door, and so Jack was left standing in an empty corridor of no possibilities.

Except for one.

"Clem," he breathed softly. He heard Ianto's phone snap shut, and Gwen inhale to speak. "Gwen, take Ianto, get Clem. Bring him here to me."

"Why?" Gwen asked.

"He's going to save the world," Jack replied.

***

It was one of the more horrible deaths Ianto had seen, and that was saying something, considering he'd scrubbed Suzie's blood from the Plass and cradled his dead girlfriend in his arms. Clem bled from every orifice, unmoving except for the subtle sonic vibration and the terrible sound of the transmission -- the high squeal that overrode everything. Clem, transmitting a single tone back to the 456, and Ianto devoutly hoped their brains were dribbling out their ears for Clem's horrible sacrifice.

When Clem was dead, when the soldiers confirmed that the 456 were no longer transmitting, it was as if a light went out in Jack. Ianto found him sitting in a corridor, looking at nothing. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Ianto offered Jack his hand and pulled him to his feet, leading him away.

They left everything to sort itself out, for once. Gwen joined them as they walked out of the building, but left again, saying she was going to Cardiff to find Rhys. She gave Jack a hug he barely returned, kissed his forehead, shot Ianto a look that very clearly said _fix him_ , and walked away. Somewhere, no doubt, someone was paying a high price for being willing to sacrifice all those children on the altar of global safety, but it would not be them, and they did not have to mete out the punishment. Let Whitehall sort Whitehall.

Ianto realised that it was still the ninth of July. He could still die. Probably, he reasoned, from the most ignoble of things. Food poisoning, or being run over by a lorry. But he had been willing to die once already today, so if he was going to die, well, that would just have to happen. The world was safe, at least.

He took Jack to the nearest hotel he could find before he remembered they had no money. The reception clerk was a good-looking young man with wide eyes and a bright smile for a handsome doctor still in his scrubs and his soldier boyfriend, especially when he heard they'd just been robbed. He told them he could find them a room if they'd call down with their new credit card number in the morning. Ianto smiled his most charming smile, the man blushed, and then there was the still sterile silence of a hotel room, and Jack sitting quietly on the bed.

"That was murder," Jack said, as Ianto busied himself turning down the blankets.

"You've done it before," Ianto answered. Jack looked at him sharply. Ianto shrugged. "You will again. That's Torchwood."

"I never wanted to force you to it," Jack said.

"That's a lie," Ianto told him. _Execute her or I'll execute you both._

"You should be dead," Jack announced.

"So glad you feel that way," Ianto said, kneeling in front of Jack and undoing his shoelaces, pulling his boots off.

Jack seemed so lost, but coddling him wasn't going to help. Jack Harkness was not Lo Boeshane; he had the core of strength one gained from seeing all Jack had seen, and Ianto was not inclined to feed his self-pity, not today, not when he was still humming with life when he should be dead on the floor in that horrible makeshift morgue. Not when he could still be dead before the day was through -- aneurysm, heart attack, erotic asphyxiation, there were no end of ways to go.

He set the shoes aside and took Jack's hands.

"If you don't stop being a right arsehole I am going to make you sleep on the sofa," he said, quite seriously. Jack blinked at him. "Quit sulking. I have been waiting for sex for four days and it's making me _very impatient._ "

It was like watching a sunrise, a little; there was an almost visible glow that rose in Jack's eyes, something about the way his face shifted imperceptibly right before he smiled.

"Lock the -- "

"Locked," Ianto said.

"Take off your -- "

"You first," Ianto replied, but he was already pulling the scrub shirt over his head. Jack shrugged out of his coat, letting it fall on the bed, and began working industriously on his cufflinks. Ianto stopped bothering with his undershirt and pulled Jack's belt off instead.

"Do we have any -- "

"Nope," Ianto said cheerfully, and elbowed Jack's thigh so that he'd lift his hips.

"Fuck," Jack said.

"Probably some lotion in the bath, this is a nice hotel," Ianto told him, and pulled Jack's trousers and pants down and licked a long slow line up Jack's cock. Jack's whole body jerked, and Ianto forgot about the possibility of dying any minute, because this was right. More right than the Jack he'd known three thousand years away, even more right than Lo: Jack's hands in his hair, Jack moaning as Ianto hummed around his cock.

Ianto ducked his head and then pulled back, gave him a smile, did it again. That was right -- the world was falling back into place, his world. Fucked up and dangerous and exhausting, but his world all the same.

Jack tugged on his hair, pulling him up, and they tumbled onto the bed together. Jack was still in his shirt, Ianto still mostly dressed, Jack's cock hanging out of the trousers which were tangled around his thighs. Jack pushed down and Ianto pushed up and Jack laughed, oh god, Jack laughed, Lo's laugh, Levy's laugh --

And there was a knock at the door.

"Ignore it," Jack said, and sucked on his neck.

"I plan to," Ianto answered, trying to get his shirt off.

The knock again, and a faint voice. "Dr. Jones?"

"Ignooooore it," Jack crooned, groping him roughly through the scrubs.

" _Dr. Jones?_ "

Ianto let his head fall back.

"He won't go away," he said, and squirmed out from under Jack and ran to the door.

This was it, he thought, as he opened it. This was how he died. There would be someone behind the door with a gun or a bomb or --

A shaving kit?

It was the young man from downstairs, and he was holding a cheap shaving kit.

"I thought you might need some toiletries," the man said. He took in Ianto's rumpled shirt, his wet lips, his rather apparent erection, and looked hopeful. "Or a hand...?"

"Any other time," Ianto said, taking the shaving kit out of his hand. " _Any_ other time, but just the toiletries for now, please."

"I'm off at six!" the man called, as Ianto closed the door and bolted it and threw the shaving kit in the general direction of the bathroom.

Jack was lying on the bed, clothing kicked to the foot of it, staring at him like he was the only thing in the world. Ianto very precisely pulled the undershirt over his head, took off the borrowed military boots and the scrub trousers. And Jack...watched.

"You didn't die," he said, as Ianto crawled on top of him and kissed him. "You should have died."

"I'll make a note," Ianto replied. Jack drew his legs up and tilted his hips, glorious friction, living flesh. Jack wouldn't last long, he never did if he'd died recently, but Ianto had been running on fear and fury for almost a week and all he wanted was one -- goddamn -- orgasm with his boyfriend --

Jack yelled when he came, digging his fingers into Ianto's shoulders, and Ianto bit down on the tense muscles standing out in Jack's neck, tasting salt. He felt Jack's come on his stomach and groaned through his own climax.

He rolled over, mostly so that Jack could breathe freely, and stared at the ceiling. After a minute he turned his head. The bite mark on Jack's throat was livid. Some of the skin was broken. Ianto raised a hand to touch it, concerned.

"Leave it," Jack said, eyes still closed. "Reminds me I'm alive."

The sun rolled down through the sky eventually, shining in their west-looking window. Sun dappling their bed was a kind of luxury Ianto hadn't expected. Jack found a tiny tube of lubricant tucked in the shaving kit and fucked him sore, brilliantly hard. Thoughtful man, that desk attendant, they really should ask him up, but six o'clock came and went quietly while Ianto napped, off and on. And then it was seven, eight, nine -- Jack ordered room service, accepted delivery of it with no trousers on, ate most of it himself. Ten o'clock; Ianto had a shower, enjoying the way really scrubbed-clean skin felt after. Eleven o'clock found Jack curled around him on the bed, touching him everywhere like he still couldn't believe it. Eleven-thirty, and Jack slept.

Ianto watched the cheap hotel clock-alarm tick over. Midnight. Half-twelve. One am. It was one in the morning on July the tenth and he was still alive and the universe hadn't ended.

Jack woke briefly when Ianto rolled over, turning away from the clock.

"Youwake?" he mumbled.

"Go back to sleep," Ianto said.

"Should sleep," Jack slurred, nosing against his ear, licking it clumsily. "You should. Tense? Blowjob?"

"No, thank you," Ianto told him. Jack smiled, a little blurry still.

"Polite," he announced, and dropped back down into unconsciousness. Ianto closed his eyes and let himself drift away as well.

***

In the morning, there was work to do.

They had left things long enough, and a few stolen hours was all well and good, but UNIT had heard about what Torchwood had done, and thrown their weight in, offering Jack anything he needed (including, thank god, paying their hotel bill). Whitehall was furious, but Gwen still had all the files, and if anyone wanted to try and challenge the combined might of UNIT and Torchwood, Gwen's finger was hovering over the _send_ key.

Jack found he was enjoying himself, in a bizarre sort of way. Conducting operations like this, cleanup for a job done messily but well, leading a dance with people who had been out to kill him a day before and got their comeuppance...yes. Jack found that very satisfying indeed.

When he couldn't be in two places at once, Gwen went and yelled the shit out of whoever he aimed her at, and in the background (as if he _could_ be in two places at once) Ianto quietly made arrangements, brought food, ran off the unimportant, marshalled the bureaucrats. He'd disappeared early in the morning and found a suit somewhere, and he looked every inch the young professional.

Perhaps a little too professional. Jack knew what Ianto looked like when he was lying-by-appearance.

When he brought Jack lunch, a cheap sandwich and an expensive fancy dessert, Jack caught his wrist as he moved away.

"I need you," he said, and Ianto nodded and sat down, taking out the PDA he'd commandeered from someone and been using all morning to kick a little Torchwood ass. "Not for that," Jack said. Ianto tucked it away again. "Just sit with me."

"Jack?" Ianto said, looking perplexed.

"Remind me that not everyone in the world is out to get me today," Jack said, taking a very satisfyingly large bite of the sandwich. Ianto studied the grain of the small wooden table they were sitting at.

"I need to tell you something," Ianto said quietly. Jack gave him a nod. "When I was -- at Quantico -- "

\-- their code for _the future_ because _when I was in the future_ apparently "sounded stupid" to Ianto --

"I saw my employee record from Torchwood. I learned when I was going to die," Ianto finished.

Jack suddenly had trouble swallowing.

"You shouldn't know that," he said, when he finally managed it. "No one should."

"It was yesterday," Ianto told him.

Jack frowned.

"I was supposed to come back and die, yesterday, or time would rip, or fracture, or something," Ianto said. "There was a flux...thing...I don't get it, but there were these two...reports, and one of them said I died yesterday and the other didn't have a date for my death, and it seemed like a pretty big problem so...I thought you should know."

"Why didn't you -- no, stupid question," Jack cut himself off. "Of course you couldn't say."

Ianto shook his head.

"Yesterday," Jack repeated. "You've known for weeks it would be yesterday."

"Probably when you died, I was supposed to," Ianto said. "If I didn't, time was supposed to go all sideways. Got a theory, sort of, if you want to hear it."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but you're not dead and time didn't fracture," Jack said. "And yeah, I do."

"I got sick at Quantico. An infection, from the cut," Ianto said, indicating his right arm. There was a long dark scar running up the inside of his forearm, but it would fade in time. "When I was better, they gave me some shots. Just to boost my immune system, the medic said. Maybe...I don't know, Jack. The virus...maybe I was immunised."

Jack watched him over the edge of his sandwich. "Could be," he said slowly. From what he'd seen of the autopsy reports, the virus had been an accelerated version of something he was familiar with from another time, another place -- Star Twelve Influenza, a terrible way to die.

"But I don't...know what to think," Ianto said. "I don't even know how to worry about this."

"You came back..." Jack considered it, looking down. Ianto had come back to them knowing he would die, and he hadn't run away, hadn't done anything to protect himself. Carrying that weight all alone, because he had to, for ten days. Knowing when he followed Jack into the room with the 456's ambassador that he was going to die. He had come home and fucked and drank coffee and driven around Cardiff knowing he was going to die.

Well, everyone was, after all. Everyone but Jack.

"I don't pretend to know everything," Jack said slowly.

"Liar," Ianto replied. Jack caught him smiling.

"Okay. I might pretend, but I don't actually. I think...you knew, and you still came here and put your face to it and accepted it," Jack said. "I remember what you looked like while I was dying. You were waiting for it."

Ianto nodded.

"So maybe...that was your reward," Jack tried that to see how it sounded, found it sounded less stupid in his mouth than in his head. "You didn't fight it, you just did the job you had to do, and time took its own course. It does that," he added. "Once in a long while, it does. Are you worried about dying, or worried about destroying the fabric of time?"

"Well, both," Ianto said. "The second one a bit more."

Jack smiled at him. "Brave one," he murmured.

"No choice," Ianto said, looking away. Jack saw him frown. He followed his gaze to where, in the middle of a crowd of UNIT soldiers and well-dressed politicians, a dark-haired woman in jeans and a black shirt was leading a young boy towards them.

"Shit," Jack breathed. Ianto looked at him.

"Should I -- "

"No, stay here," Jack said, as Alice approached. "Too late to run, anyway."

Jack set his sandwich aside and stood up uncertainly, wondering if he was going to get a hug or a slap in the face. Either seemed on offer. He wondered if Alice knew herself.

"Uncle Jack!" Steven yelled, and broke away from her, running into his arms. He swept the boy up in a bear hug -- god, he was so delicate, children were so breakable. He could feel Steven's heartbeat against his chest as Steven wrapped his arms around Jack's neck. Someone had given the kid some kind of toy action figure which he was clutching tightly, ramming it into the back of Jack's head. Jack closed his eyes, uncaring. He might not get to see him much, might not get to see Alice very often, but Alice was his daughter and he loved her and her son beyond life.

 _I'd die for you,_ he promised silently, as he always did, because as useless as the promise was, it was still all he could offer.

Steven squirmed out of his hug and he let the boy down to the ground again. The child promptly ran around the table and began playing at the other end of it, sending his action figure on half-narrated adventures amongst the paperwork, complete with sound effects and exploding paperclips.

"Alice," Jack said. She gave him a look he didn't understand (god, so many of _those_ over the years) and glanced at Ianto.

"Alice Carter," she said, offering her hand.

"Ianto Jones," Ianto replied, rising to shake it. He glanced at Jack.

"This is my daughter," Jack said quietly, so that Steven wouldn't hear. Alice looked annoyed. "It's fine. Ianto's one of us. Torchwood," he added, lest she think he just happened to have kids all over. He didn't. Lucia had been special.

"Pleasure to meet you, miss," Ianto said, and looked like he meant it. Maybe he did.

"I wanted to let you know Steven and I are going home," Alice told him, turning away from Ianto. "I need to get him back in school, back to the regular routine."

Jack tried to smile. "So. See you in a month?"

She looked away. Jack kept the smile in place.

"Two months?" he asked.

"Sorry, dad," she said softly.

"Right." Jack went to Steven and gathered him up in his arms, kissing his cheek. "Be safe, kid," he said, and set him down. Alice took his hand, leading him away.

"We're going on the train!" Steven yelled over his shoulder at Jack, as they walked away. Jack gave him a wave, watched them disappear into a knot of UNIT soldiers.

There was a long silence.

"So," Ianto said. "Your grandson."

"Don't. Say. Anything," Jack said, even though he knew Ianto would.

"He's _adorable_ , Jack. You must be the proudest grandfather in the whole care home," Ianto grinned.

"I am not old," Jack told him.

"You found a grey hair the other day. I distinctly remember your noise of undisguised horror."

"Hey, you're the one sleeping with me."

"Maybe I have a thing for older partners."

Jack groaned and sat down in his chair. He glanced at Ianto, who despite his teasing looked...rather thoughtful. As if there had been an edge to it that he hadn't noticed.

"I can see where the trouble lies," Ianto said, and sat down too. "Your life is more complicated than any single person knows, isn't it?"

"You should see my taxes," Jack told him.

***

Meeting Alice, and Jack's legitimately adorable grandson, was enough happy families probably for a lifetime, Ianto thought.

That was before Rhiannon called, two weeks after Ianto didn't die, and things got _really_ bizarre.

"Rhi, hi," Ianto said, answering his mobile in the little kitchen nook at their new temporary offices in downtown Cardiff. It was hard to get used to working somewhere with windows, but UNIT was rebuilding their Hub for them and in the meantime they had to work somewhere. "Sorry, now's not a great -- "

"Thirty thousand quid," Rhi said, with no preamble. "Ianto, two blokes in uniform just came to the front door and gave me thirty thousand quid."

He'd meant to call her about that, he really had. Jack had arranged it, with a wave of the little data chip all those nasty recordings were stored on. 

"Sorry, yeah, meant to warn you," he said.

"Is this some kind of scam? They said it was for services to the Crown." Rhi sounded furious, which was odd, because if someone gave _him_ thirty thousand quid, he'd have had to sit down for a while. (As it was, since he was paid to risk his life on a daily basis, no special bonus for him.)

"Yeah, it's, you know. We thought it'd be nice," Ianto said, as Jack approached. "For your car, and all."

"My car wasn't worth that much," Rhiannon told him. "This is some kind of hush money, isn't it."

Ianto pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Rhi, it's a reward."

"All I did was give my stupid little brother a car."

"In so doing, helping to serve the people of Great Britain," Ianto said, trying to elbow Jack off as he draped himself over his shoulders, eavesdropping without shame. "Look, do you not _want_ the money?" Ianto asked.

"I don't want to be paid off!"

"It's not like that!" Ianto insisted. He turned and mouthed "Geroff!" at Jack, who took the opportunity to slide the phone right out of his hand.

"Hi, is this Rhiannon Davies?" Jack asked. Ianto turned to stare at him in horror. "Nice to meet you! Captain Jack Harkness. I'm your brother's boss."

Jack's eyes got really wide, then.

"Well, yeah, I guess _puttin' it to him_ is one way of saying it," he said. Ianto closed his eyes. Maybe if he wished hard enough, this would end up a terrible dream. "I...I'll...yes, I understand completely. Absolutely. He didn't? Shame on him. You didn't tell her I was American!" Jack said gleefully to Ianto. "Sorry, you know how Ianto is, no head for details."

Ianto reached for the phone, but Jack grappled him back.

"Well, there was a little departmental mishap, you know how these things are," Jack was saying, holding Ianto more-or-less at arm's length. "So while we were -- uh, budgetless -- you stepped in and helped supply our organisation with some very necessary tools. The Crown wanted to compensate you for filling a civil service role as volunteers. No. I understand. Definitely not. No, tax-free," he said, as Ianto stopped struggling to recover his phone. Jack might actually be getting through to her. "I think that's a great idea. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Da -- "

Jack paused.

"Well, that sounds nice. Sure. Ianto knows where it is," Jack said. "Great. No, thank _you._ Goodbye."

He hung up the phone and offered it to Ianto.

"She is now prepared to accept our compensation for work performed," he said.

"'I know where it is'?" Ianto asked.

"Rhiannon's coming to town tomorrow," Jack said, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking smug. "We're meeting her for coffee at that place you like."

"No, Jack."

"Why not? She seems nice."

"I'm pretty sure she just asked you if you were the one _putting it to me._ "

"Well, unless you've got another man hanging around that I don't know about, that's pretty accurate. I mean, except when you're putting it to me," Jack said. He gave Ianto his filthiest grin. "You could put it to me right now if you want. The Rift is slow and my office is pretty soundproof."

"You are not distracting me," Ianto pointed a finger at him. Jack licked it. "Stop it!"

"Come on, you got to meet my daughter," Jack said, edging closer, sliding an arm around his waist. Ianto tried to make it awkward, but Jack had a way of ignoring awkwardness which just made one feel childish. "Rhiannon seems nice."

"You didn't grow up with her."

"She's okay with a handsome American bloke putting it to her brother," Jack murmured into his neck. "She said if I hurt you her man'd gut me."

"I'd be far more afraid of Rhi than her husband," Ianto told him, giving up and leaning back against the counter, taking Jack's weight against his chest. Jack was so warm. Had to be the coat.

"Part of her job, I suppose," Jack said. "Family and stuff. Really, what's there to be afraid of?"

Ianto pressed his face to Jack's shoulder. "It makes it so real, Jack."

"Well?"

"I don't know what we are, even. Here, it makes sense. Out in the world, sometimes..."

"Would it be easier if we put a name to it?"

Ianto sighed. "No. That's the thing. It wouldn't. Just a different kind of difficult."

"Hm. So we'll go, I'll charm your sister, she'll brag to all her friends about your gorgeous boyfriend, Gwen'll call us a couple, you'll get confused and anxious about it, and we keep on. Sound good?"

"You can't have me your whole life," Ianto said. "But I can have you for all of mine."

"Yeah."

Ianto considered this. "I don't know how long that is."

"We're not supposed to," Jack replied. "This is how it's supposed to be. So that we know we have to live here and now. Hey," he added, leaning back. "Should I get a haircut before tomorrow? I don't want to be an embarrassment. GWEN!" he yelled, before Ianto could reply. "I'm going out to make myself prettier."

"Good trick!" Gwen yelled back. "Ianto going too?"

"He's pretty enough, he's just coming along to look intimidating," Jack said. "We'll be back in an hour. Hold things down?"

"Course," Gwen answered, walking into the kitchen. "Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That means I can buy high heels," Jack said, rubbing his hands.

"Absolutely not. I'm the girl, I get to have the nicest shoes," Gwen told him. "Go on. Bring lunch back."

Ianto followed Jack past her, out into the world outside Torchwood, into Cardiff. Cardiff was theirs to protect, and if they didn't always save everyone, then they at least saved what they could. They deserved what they could get in the way of joy as recompense.

Jack glanced at him, reached out, and took his hand. A couple of people turned to look at them as they walked. Yes, well, Torchwood. No labels, no shame, no fear. Everyone died someday, so he'd better make the most of it.

Ianto didn't let go of Jack's hand.

END

_When a Captain trim and neat_   
_Wants to slip me something sweet,_   
_Then his sweets mean we must meet by Cardiff Bay,_   
_And I'm always true to you, darling, in my fashion;_   
_Yes I'm always true to you, darling, in my way._


End file.
